LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



? 



JUNITBDSTATES OP AMERICA. | 



Neir Books 

BY 
JLnxxa, Cora Ritctiie (Mio^T^tt). 

Fairy Fingers . . . $1.75 

The Mute Singer. . . . 1.75 

The Clergyman s Wife. . . 1.75 

Italian Life and Legends. . 1.50 



mail, postage free, on receipt 
of price, 

BY 

Carleton* PubUslier) 

New York. 



/3 >f ^ ^ 

ITALIAN 

LIFE AND LEGENDS, 



BY 

ANNA CORA ("MOW ATT") RITCHIE, 

AUTHOR OP 
'Fairy Fingers," "Mute Singer," "Clergyman's Wife," " Mimic Life," Twin 
' Roses," autobiography of an Actress," etc. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 



i I 



^. 







NEW YORK; 

Carleton, Publisher^ Madison Square. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON «fc CO. 
MDCCCLXX. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 

MAEY G. THOMPSON, 
In the OflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 



> 






Stereotyped at the 
WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE, 

Corner Avenue A and Eighth Street, 
New York. 



PREFACE. 



In presenting to the public " Italian Life and Legends," 
I cannot but believe that the many friends of my sister, 
Mrs. Ritchie, will welcome with interest another volume 
from her pen — that pen which is now laid at rest, and 
never more can speak to us in tones of sympathy and 
love. 

The sketches were written during the author's residence 
in Italy, for the most part in Florence, in the years 1864 
and 1865. A few appeared in periodicals at the time 
they were written ; others have never before been pub- 
lished. They are now offered to the public because it 
is believed that the historic incidents they contain, to- 
gether with the wild romance of Italian character, claim 
a decided interest. 

M. G. T. 

New York, Nov. i, 1870. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

SAVONAHOLA . i 9 

VrrTOBIA COLONNA ^ 53 

Galileo's Villa 71 

Convent op Vallombkosa 94 

Bridges of Flohence 107 

Dante .118 

Florentine Feuds 133 

Feuds between the Bianchi and Neri^ . . . 145 

The Village Serravezza 157 

The Protestant Cemetery at Florence . . 169 

Mrs. Browning — Dr. Soutliwood Smith — Mrs. 

Frances Trollope, and other Celebrities. 

Overflow of Arno — Artist, and the Story op a 

Mad Singer 180 

Fedithe Sculptor 191 



Till CONTENTS. 

Page 

Adelaide Ristori, and Piccolomini .... 200 

The Beauhful Horror. A Florentine Legend . 211 

GiNEVRA . 237 

La Belle Clementine 241 

Caterina Sforza 268 

Thrice Wedded, thrice Widowed. An Italian Chat- 
elaine. 




ITALIM LIFE A^ LEGEm)S. 



SAVONAEOLA 



The Piazza della Signoria is situated in the most 
central part of Florence, faced by tlie grand Pal- 
azzo Yecchio, and enriched by marvels of art fi'om 
tlie bands of Michel Angelo, John of Bologna, 
Ammanato, Orgagna, etc. ; but it is not on account 
of its felicitous locality, or its world-renowned sur- 
roundings alone, that this Piazza is celebrated. It 
is consecrated by historic associations which might 
well stir with enthusiasm the most sluggish and 
insensible natures. Among the heart-rending human 
tragedies that have been enacted upon that gayly 
beautiful Piazza, was the cruel martyrdom of the 
pure-minded, truth-devoted Savonarola and his two 
friends. For more than three centuries — that is, 
from the time of his death in 1498, until within 
about the last thirty years — this Piazza, on the an- 
niversary of that merciless sacrifice, was strewed 
with fresh violets, in grateful remembrance of the 
good he achieved and the wrong he endured. Mrs. 
1* (9) 



10 SAVOJS'AF.OLA, 

Browning thus alludes to this touching custom, and 
to the tardv recognition of his manifold benefac- 
tions to Florence : 

"AH the "Winters that have snowed, 
Cannot snow ont the scent from stone and air 

Of a sincere man's virtues. . . . 
. . , . It were foul 

To grudge Savonarola and the rest 
Their violets 1 rather pay them quick and fresh. 

The emphasis of death makes manifest 
The eloquence of action in our flesh, 

And men who, living, were but dimly guessed, 
When once free from their life's entangled mesh. 

Show their fuU length in graves." 

It is singular that no complete and satisfactory- 
biography of so remarkable a man as Savonarola 
existed, until Professor Yillari, of Florence, some 
four or five years ago, published his " Life and 
Times of Savonarola." This able author devoted 
ten years to incessant researches in the careful prep- 
aration of his work. Its \'igorously impressive 
style, its minute details, and the authenticity of the 
information given, cannot be too highly estimated. 
About a year after Signor Yillari's book was pub- 
lished, ''Homola" appeared. Savonarola is made 
one of the heroes of that brilliant novel. 

Girolamo Savonarola was born at Ferrara, on the 
21st of September, 1452. His youth was meditative, 
studious, and uneventful, until he reached his twen- 
tieth year. At that time a member of the ancient 
Strozzi family, who had been banished fi'om Flor- 



SAVOITAEOLA. 11 

eiice, resided at Ferrara, in the neighborhood of Sa- 
vonarola's paternal home. The illustrious Floren- 
tine had a beautiful but illegitimate daughter. The 
youthful Savonarola was kindly received by the 
Strozzi, and, being thrown in contact with the fair 
maiden, became deeply enamored. The cordiality 
of her greetings, and the pleasure she appeared to 
take in his ^dsits, led Savonarola into a serious error. 
'Not for a moment doubting that she reciprocated 
his attachment, he confidently solicited her hand. 
Her haughty reply at once amazed and crushed him. 
She answered proudly that a Btrozzi could not wed 
a Savonarola ! Without remonstrance or reproach, 
Savonarola withdrew; but from that time he be- 
came subject to fits of deep melancholy. This was 
his first affection^ and we may judge of its strength 
by its constancy, for it was his last. 

While his mind was still in a very dejected state, 
he was strongly impressed by the preaching of a 
Dominican friar, who visited Ferrara. Savonarola's 
thoughts soon turned wholly away from the world. 
At the age of twenty-three, he visited Bologna, and 
entered the convent of St. Dominic. He stated that 
the gross corruption of the age was the cause of his 
retirement. 

His monastic life was characterized by great de- 
voutness, the rude simplicity of his habits, and the 



12 SAVONAROLA, 

exalted state of his mind. He hardly ate enough to 
support nature. His bed was of wicker-work, with 
a sack of straw and a blanket. He had frequent 
trances, and often gave vent to his thoughts and 
emotions in poetry. 

When war threatened Ferrara, the superior of the 
convent sought a less uncertain shelter for some of 
the brotherhood. Savonarola was sent to Florence. 
There he entered that Convent of St. Mark in which 
he afterward effected reforms destined to become so 
important a feature in secular as well as ecclesiasti- 
cal history. 

At this period Lorenzo the Magnificent reigned 
in all his superb licentiousness over Florence. Its 
inhabitants, nobles and populace, rich and poor, were 
alike immersed in a sea of profligate gayety. Fetes j 
dances, tournaments, unchaste orgies, drunken revels, 
and lower depravities, wholly engrossed the public 
mind. Lorenzo was a patron of the fine arts, a man 
of letters, an author, and had no mean gift of poetry ; 
yet he could debase himself by composing obscene 
ballads, to be sung during carnivals by young noble- 
men, who, dressed as devils, ran shouting, yelhng, and 
sin^rinor, throu2:h the streets. Yillari declares that 
these ballads are so revoltingly indecent, that in the 
present day they would not be tolerated by the most 
depraved taste. 



SAVOI^ABOLA. 13 

Savonarola was horror-stricken by the profane 
boldness of the nnscrupulous potentate, who only 
employed his rich mental attributes, and the power 
conferred by his princely office, to debase or oppress 
his subjects. Holy promptings clamored incessantly 
within the pious friar's sjDirit, and urged him to rise 
up and counteract Lorenzo's baneful influence. 

It was one of Savonarola's most striking charac- 
teristics, that whenever he saw there was a good work 
to be done, he always felt that he was the man called 
to do it ; and he had perfect faith in his own strength 
to accomplish any task to which he set his hand. 

This determination to wage war against the un- 
bridled license which ran riot in Florence, was con- 
firmed by a remarkable vision. The heavens seemed 
opened to him ; the future calamities of the Church 
were vividly represented, and he heard a voice which 
commanded him to declare to the people the misfor- 
tunes with which they were menaced. Up to this 
period, Savonarola's sermons had attracted little at- 
tention ; but he now electrified his hearers by boldly 
denouncing Lorenzo, and the depravities of which 
he was the unblushing instigator. 

This sermon caused five of the principal citizens 
of Florence to visit Savonarola, and bid him beware. 
Savonarola told them that he was the mouthpiece of 
the Lord, which man could not silence. They 



14 SAVONABOLA. 

threatened liim with banishment. Stirred by a 
prophetic spirit, he answered, " I am a stranger, and 
Lorenzo is not only a citizen, bnt the first of citizens ; 
yet it is I who will remain, and he who shall leave 
the city." 

His visions now became more and more frequent, 
and more absorbing. They invariably formed the 
snbject of his sermons. At times he resolved not to 
preach what had been revealed to liim during these 
visions ; bnt when he entered the pulpit he found 
himself powerless to resist his spiritual promptings 
— his own volition had no command over his utter- 
ances. Sometimes, while preaching, he fell into a 
state of trance or ecstasy. 

Multitudes flocked to hear him, and were stirred 
to remorse by his bold denunciations of crime. Ilis 
voice had remarkable power, and historians dwell 
upon its tones of thunder ; but it had also a plead- 
ing pathos, and the softness which corresponded to 
his merciful nature. He exerted a magnetic influ- 
ence over his hearers, which melted to devotion even 
those who came to scoff. 

Yillari says : " It would be impossible to give an 
idea of the force of his expressions, of the vividness 
of his descriptions, of the works of his imagination, 
of the confidence of his faith that his visions came 
from heaven. He repeated the words he had heard 



8AV0NAM0LA. 15 

pronounced by invisible beings; his deep and 
solemn voice was re-echoed from the vaulted roofs 
of the Temple ; it descended like a divine manifes- 
tation on the people, who were roused to a state of 
ecstasy, and who trembled with terror, wonder, and 
delight." 

In 1490 he was chosen Prior of the Convent of 
St. Mark. It was customary for a Prior, upon his 
election, to pay homage to Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
Savonarola refused to comply with this observance. 
He said that his election came from God alone, and 
that to him alone he rendered obeisance. Lorenzo 
tried to conciliate him; he went to mass at St. 
Mark's, and then walked in the gardens of the con- 
vent. Savonarola quietly pursued his studies, and 
the Magnificent waited in vain to be joined by the 
humble friar. 

^Yhen Lorenzo was stricken with a mortal illness, 
and his last hours approached, he desired to see Sa- 
vonarola, and to receive absolution at his hands. " I 
know no honest fi'iarbut liim ! " was the dying mag- 
nate's exclamation. Savonarola promply obeyed 
the summons. Lorenzo told him that there was 
three especial sins which he wished to confess : the 
sacking of Yolterra, the money pillaged at the 
Monte deUe FanciuUe which had caused so many 
deaths, and the bloodshed after the conspiracy of the 



16 SAVOXAF.OLA. 

Pazzi. Savonarola bade him restore all he had un- 
justly taken, or order his sons to restore it, and told 
him that he must have a lively faith in the mercy 
of God- Lorenzo affirmed that he had that faith, 
and reluctantly promised to return yrhatever he had 
taken unlawfully. Then Savonarola impressively 
declared to him that there was one thing more to be 
done. '' You must restore liberty to the people of 
Florence I *' exclaimed the friar. Lorenzo, with one 
last efEort, raised himself in his bed, and scornfully 
turned his back, without speaking. Savonarola left 
him, and the Magnificent died a prey to the most 
cruel mental torture (Sth April, 1492). 

Mrs. Browning makes mention of this incident in 
her ** Casa Guidi Windows : " 

'•Who also by a prmcely deathbed cried, 

' Loose Rorence, or God vriH not loose thy soul,' 
~ While the ilagnincent f eU. back and died 

Benearh the star-looks, shooting from the cowl, 
Which turned to wormwood bitterness the wide 
Deep sea of his ambitions." 

In that year Savonarola had a dream which he 
believed to be a divine revelation. He saw in the 
sky a hand holding a drawn sword ; upon the sword 
was written, '• The sword of the Lord on the earth, 
and speedily.'' Suddenly the sword turned toward 
the earth, the air became dark, showers of swords 
and arrows and fire descended, and fearfid thunders 
were heard, while the whole earth became a prey to 



SAVONABOLA. 17 

wars, famines, and pestilences. This vision was 
afterward represented by a large number of engrav- 
ings, and upon numerous medals. 

After Savonarola became Prior he commenced 
his reforms in the Convent of St. Mark. He fitted 
the monks to live by their own labor — formed 
schools in which they were taught pai»ting, sculp- 
ture, architecture, and the art of copying and illu- 
minating manuscripts. He made the three especial 
objects of study theology, morals, and the Holy 
Scriptures ; that the latter might be better compre- 
hended, the brethren were instructed in Greek, 
Hebrew, and the Oriental languages. 

Savonarola predicted the coming of the French 
army, " of a new Cyrus, who would traverse Italy as 
a conqueror, without meeting with any resistance or 
breaking a single lance." Italy was at that time 
wholly unprotected. When the news suddenly 
arrived that the French troops were crossing the 
Alps, she had no national armies and no friendly 
foreign forces. The terrified Florentines rushed to 
Savonarola, by whom the coming of the foe had 
been predicted, and implored his aid and counsel. 
Crowds thronged the streets in a state of wild disor- 
der. Soon the popular fury turned against Piero 
de' Medici (who had succeeded his father Lorenzo, 
and had surpassed him in the magnitude of his 



18 SAVONAROLA. 

crimes), and against the nobles and wealthy citizens. 
iN'ot only were their houses in danger of being 
sacked and burned, but their lives were in jeopardy. 

At this crisis Savonarola mounted the pulpit of 
the Duomo. The church was crammed witli people, 
rudely armed to defend themselves against the in- 
vaders. Savonarola commenced his discourse wdth 
these words: "Behold, the sword has descended, 
the scourges have commenced, the prophecies are 
being fulfilled ! " So irresistible was his eloquence, 
that the passions of the multitude were calmed, and 
no violence was committed that day. Historians 
ascribe this fact entirely to the ascendancy which 
he had acquired over the minds of the people. 

At the meeting of the Signoria, who assembled to 
discuss the steps to be taken, Piero de' Medici was 
pronounced incapable of ruling the republic, and it 
was resolved that ambassadors should be sent to the 
French King Charles, and that Savonarola should 
accompany them. 

The chosen ambassadors set out, the next day, in 
their splendid equipages ; Savonarola followed on 
foot. The ambassadors were coldly received by the 
King, who refused to treat with them. Then Sav- 
onarola entered the French camp alone, and stood 
before the King, as he sat among his generals. 
The friar addressed the sovereiirn in a fearless tone. 



SAVONAROLA. 10 

and told him tliat the Lord had sent him to deliver 
Italy from her afflictions, and that if he forgot the 
work of the Lord, another hand would be selected for 
its accomplishment. The King listened with pro- 
found respect, and gave Savonarola the assurance of 
his friendly intentions. 

Meantime, Piero de' Medeci, after a vain attempt 
to resist by force of arms, fled from Florence. 

After much difficulty and procrastination, King 
Charles signed a treaty with the Florentines, but 
delayed his departure from Florence. His soldiers 
filled the city, creating daily scenes of riot and con- 
fusion ; robberies and murders were frequent ; the 
citizens were defenceless and in despair — still the 
King could not be persuaded to leave. Once more 
Savonarola was called upon to appear before the 
King. The result of this interview was a speedy 
withdrawal of Charles and his army; but not until 
his retainers had sacked the splendid palace which 
had been appropriated to his use. Through this 
barefaced robbery a large portion of the valuable 
collections of the Medici passed into the hands of 
the French. 

The Florentines now turned more confidently than 
ever to Savonarola. They owed their freedom to 
him ; his counsels alone could be trusted ; his proph- 
ecies had been fulfilled ; he alone had been able to 



20 SAVOIfABOLA. 

influence the King and relieve Florence from the 
heavy incubus of the royal presence. Yillari says : 
" The man, therefore, vrho was destined to save the 
people of -Florence was Friar Girolamo Savonarola ; 
the hour had struck when he was to enter into 
public life ; events had carried him forward irresist- 
ibly in that direction, notwithstanding the firmness 
with which he had hitherto held back." 

From the pulpit of the Duomo, Savonarola told 
his hearers boldly that the reform in Florence must 
begin with things spiritual ; that the people must 
purify their minds, renounce their evil courses, and 
abstain from all profligacy and profanity, and tlius 
they might fit themselves to construct a new govern- 
ment. He set forth that the groundwork of that 
government ought to be, " that no individual should 
have any benefit but what is general, and the people 
alone must have the power of choosing the magis- 
trates and of approving the laws." 

Speaking of the successful formation of this new 
government, planned by Savonarola, Yillari says: 
" And all this occurred in a brief space of time, 
without a sword having been drawn, without a drop 
of blood having been shed, without a single civil 
riot, and that^ too, in Florence, the city of tumults. 
But the greatest marvel of all was the powTir exer- 
cised by a single man, and he a simple friar, direct- 



SAVONAROLA. 21 

ing the work from his pulpit, and bringing it to a 
happy conclusion ; an instance unexampled in his- 
tory of the omnipotence of the human will and of 
persuasive eloquence. He was never to he seen at 
meetings in the Piazza, nor at the sittings of the 
Signoria, but he became the very soul of the whole 
people, and the chief author of all the laws by which 
the new government was constituted." 

Villari thus describes th6 total change which took 
place in the whole city : " The women gave up their 
rich ornaments — dressed with simplicity and 
walked demurely ; the young men became, as if by 
enchantment, modest and religious ; instead of car- 
nival songs, religious hymns were chanted. During 
the hours of mid-day rest the tradesmen were seen 
seated in their shops reading the Bible or some 
work of the friar ; habits of prayers were resumed, 
the churches were well attended, and alms were 
freely given. But the most wonderful thing of all 
was to find bankers and merchants refunding, from 
scruples of conscience, sums of money, amounting 
sometimes to thousands of florins, which they had 
unrighteously acquired." 

But this state of unwonted and happy quietude 
was of brief duration. The unstable and unprinci- 
pled Charles the Eighth broke faith with the Flor- 
entines, and violated every promise he had given. 



22 SAVOJ^ABOLA. 

The city was in great danger, for Piero de' Medici 
was making mighty efforts to return, and reassume 
his despotic sway. He had obtained the favor of the 
French Hing, and was even now approaching the 
city in his company. 

To rescue the republic from peril so imminent, 
Savonarola was, for the third time, sent to the King. 
The sovereign and friar met at Poggibonsi. Again 
Savonarola warned the King that his perfidy would 
draw down divine retribution. Awed by that me- 
nace, Charles once more gave solemn pledges — 
which, however, were never redeemed. 

Savonarola, with all the potency of his powerful 
rhetoric, opposed the return of the Medici, and the 
reestablishment of despotism. Piero de' Medici 
was eventually driven back, and took refuge in 
Home. 

On the death of Pope Innocent the Eighth, Car- 
dinal Kodrigo Borgia, father of the infamous Lucre- 
tia Borgia, became Pope Alexander the Sixth. 
Crime, in its lowest, widest, blackest form, sat un- 
veiled and triumphant on the Papal throne. Wlio 
can wonder that Pope Borgia was Savonarola's bit- 
terest enemy ? Savonarola had addressed him a 
respectful, yet daring letter of remonstrance, setting 
forth tlie injuries done to the Church by the im- 
moral lives of her Popes. A man like Borgia was 



SAVONAROLA. 23 

not likely to pardon such, a rebuke. In 1495 the 
Pope invited Savonarola to Eome, but his friends, 
who had learned that Borgia favored a conspiracy 
against the upright friar, entreated him not to obey 
the summons. They assured him it was only a 
snare laid for his imprisonment or assassination. 
Fortunately, a severe internal malady, which ren- 
dered travelling impossible, afforded him a legiti- 
mate excuse for delay. Already his life had been 
several times attempted. Even in the city he could 
not venture forth without an armed escort. 

Savonarola's excuses were seemingly accepted by 
the Pope, but before long the friar was again com- 
manded, and more peremptorily tkan before, to 
hasten to Pome, and was suspended from preaching. 

Savonarola refused to leave Florence, but he was 
silenced. Fra Domenico, his zealous and devoted 
friend, preached in his stead and promulgated his 
doctrines ; but they lacked the influence of Savona- 
rola's personal presence and overwhelming elo- 
quence. 

Savonarola's active mind and his love of useful- 
ness compelled him to engage in good works which 
might be effected out of the pulpit. The carnival 
of 1496 was approaching, and the obscene orgies 
which the Medici had inaugurated were still in 



24 SAVONAROLA. 

TOgue ; even the children took a prominent part in 
festivities at which all decency was ignored. 

One of the favorite amusements was to light bon- 
fires in the Piazza della Signoria, and dance around 
them, singing lascivious ballads, and then to conclude 
by a game of throwing stones. This brutal game 
invariably maimed, and often killed, people who 
were passing in the streets. 

Savonarola undertook what he modestly called 
" The Children's Keform.'' He gave a new direc- 
tion to their amusements, and endeavored to substi- 
tute religious, for carnival or bacchanalian cere- 
monies. 

The children were in the habit of forming them- 
selves into bands of extempore robbers, and taking 
possession of much-frequented localities, to bar the* 
passage of every one who walked that way, until 
the contents of his purse had been distributed 
among them. The money thus forcibly obtained 
was squandered in festivities and revelry. Savona- 
rola had small altars set up in the localities where 
the children were accustomed to congregate, and he 
told them they might collect alms to distribute 
among the poor, but they should take no money by 
force, and waste none in carousing. lie allowed 
them to sing, as before ; but he taught them hymns, 
some of his own composition, which they were tc 



SAVONAROLA. 25 

substitute for their profane and disgusting Medici 
ballads. He instructed the good friar Domenico to 
collect the children, and allow them the pleasurable 
excitement of choosing from among themselves a 
leader, who was presented to the Signoria, and who 
made known to that body the object of the reform. 
The children were highly delighted at their own im- 
portance, and entered into the spirit of the good 
work with great zeal. The murderous game of 
stones was for the first time given up. The children 
collected three hundred ducats, which were given 
to the poor. 

Savonarola's friends now made such earnest ap- 
peals to Pope Borgia, that he granted the friar per- 
mission to preach during Lent. The Pope, either 
to conciHate Savonarola, or because he feared him, 
or to lay another snare, offered him a cardinal's hat, 
on condition that he would change the style of lan- 
guage he had been accustomed to use in his sermons. 
Savonarola quietly refused the conditions, and the 
new dignity. 

During his Lent preachings, the multitudes which 
flocked to hear him were so great, that a lofty am- 
phitheatre, rising to the first row of ^vindows, was 
erected in the inside of the Duomo. This amphi- 
theatre had seventeen small steps, on which the 
children were seated. Savonarola often addressed 
2 



26 SAVONAROLA, 

them, for to them he looked for the future regener- 
ation of Florence. 

The attempts upon his life became so open, that 
he had to be conducted to the Duomo bj armed 
friends. And they reescorted him to the convent, 
without venturing to leave him for a moment un- 
surrounded. These Lent discourses are chronicled 
as the most bold and the most impressive which he 
ever delivered. The historian says : " His sermons 
are to the Florentine history of this brief period, 
what the orations of Demosthenes are to that of 
Athens, of Cicero to that of Rome." 

It often happened that the princes of Italy wrote 
to Savonarola, to remonstrate with him, because 
they imagined that they were the persons alluded 
to in his sermons. 

Savonarola was again ordered by the Pope to al)- 
stain froni all preaching, in public or in private, and 
commanded to acknowledge the authority of the 
Yicar General of the Lombard congregation, and 
to proceed to whatever place he appointed. Pope 
Borgia knew that if Savonarola were to leave the 
Tuscan territory, he would immediately be in his 
power. Savonarola saw through the plot, and at 
once made up his mind not to obey ; but he sent a 
conciliatory answer to the Pope, giving his reasons. 
The Pope once more pretended to be satisfied, and 



SAVONAROLA. 27 

resorted to cajolery; still, however, commanding 
Savonarola to abstain from preaching. 

At this period, Florence was in a state of great 
misery. She was threatened with famine, and the 
plague had broken out, and was making daily prog- 
ress. The people were almost starving, and in despair, 
without any prospect of succor. As usual, they 
turned to Savonarola for comfort and counsel. The 
Signoria implored him to break the silence wrong- 
fully imposed by the Pope. Savonarola, greatly 
moved by the deplorable state of the city, yielded 
to the solicitations of the chief magistrates, and re- 
turned without permission to the pulpit. So long 
as the Florentines could hear his voice, they gained 
courage to face any calamity. 

It was a singular coincidence, that Savonarola 
had hardly preached his sermon of consolation, con- 
juring his hearers to give up their vices, and lead 
good lives, that they might receive the blessings of 
Heaven, when the long hoped-for supply of men 
and of wheat arrived from Marseilles. All Flor- 
ence was frantic with joy, and the people's confi- 
dence in Savonarola was redoubled by this incident. 
The bells rang out a joyful peal,. artillery was dis- 
charged, and thanksgivings were offered up in all 
the churches. 

When the carnival season of another year, 1497, 



28 SAVONAROLA. 

approached, the Arrabbiati, which was the party 
Tiolently opposed to Savonarola, again made prepa- 
rations for the " scandalous feast of the Medici," 
and for the game of stones, which Savonarola 
had prevented on the previous year. But Savona- 
rola, aided by his well-tried friend, Fra Domenico, 
invented a ceremony which would better occupy 
the hands and minds of the little people — this was 
the making of a bonfire of vanities. The children, 
under the direction of their young leader, were in- 
structed to march through the city in white robes, 
with olive crowns on their heads, and knock at 
every door to gather voluntary contributions for the 
bonfire. They were to ask for objects which came 
under the head of vanities or the Anathema. 
These were obscene pictures, portraits of females 
of bad repute, immodest and immoral books, carnival 
masks and dresses, artificial accessories of the 
toilet, tapestries with unchaste designs, cards, dice, 
gaming boards, etc. On receiving the Anathema, 
the children repeated a prayer taught them by Sav- 
onarola, and went on their way. On the last day 
of the Carnival, the articles collected were carried 
by tlie juvenile reformers to the Piazza della Sig- 
noria. 

The children marched in solemn procession, bear- 
in<? their unhallowed burdens. Before them was 



SAVONAROLA. 29 

borne a statue of tKe infant Saviour, the exquisite 
work of Donatelli, supported by four angels. Jesus 
pointed, with the left hand, to a crown of thorns ; 
the right hand was stretched out in the act of bless- 
ing the people. A dense crowd, holding red crosses 
and olive branches, and singing hymns, accompanied 
the children. On the piazza, an octangular pyramid 
had been formed, 60 feet in height, and 240 feet in 
circumference at its base ; it was divided into fifteen 
stages, and on these the vanities were heaped. The 
interior of the pyramid was filled with combustible 
materials, and on the top was a monstrous image 
representing the carnival. While the children sang, 
denouncing carnival vices, the pile was set on 
fire. The great bell of the Palazzo Yecchio was 
tolled, and the multitude shouted for joy. 

Savonarola has been severely reprehended by the 
writers of after times, because it is supposed that 
many valuable manuscripts and rare books, and even 
works of art, were destroyed in that bonfire ; but 
there is no proof that such was the case, and Savon- 
arola's love and admiration for the fine arts cannot 
be questioned. The most eminent artists of the 
age were his devoted friends. Michael Angelo was 
constantly seen in the Duomo, when Savonarola 
preached, and continued to read his sermons with 
delightj even in old age. 



30 SAVONAROLA. 

In the second part will be traced the fall of Sav- 
onarola from his wonderful moral autocracy of 
Florence, until he was burned at the stake in the 
public square of the city. 



PAET II. 



Upon Ascension Day of that year, the party op- 
posed to Savonarola conspired to have his pulpit 
blown up, by fireworks, while he was preaching. 
But this attempt was abandoned, for fear of injury 
to the congregation. The Arrabbiati then scattered 
all sorts of filth in the pulpit, and drove sharp spikes 
in the places where Savonarola, in the warmth of 
his discourse, often struck his hands. The object of 
these conspirators was to raise a commotion, in the 
hope that an opportunity to slay Savonarola would 
occur. 

The Piagnoni, a party full of gentle piety, who 
were fi^endly to Savonarola, went to the Duomo at 
break of day, and cleansed the pulpit and removed 
the spikes. 

Savonarola, surrounded by his armed escort, 
reached the Duomo in safety, and commenced hia 



SAVONAROLA, 31 

sermon. Suddenly, -vvhile he was preaching, a tre- 
mendous crash was heard, the alms-chest was 
thrown down, drums were beaten, benches were 
torn up and tossed about, and the doors flung open. 
The Compagnacci (evil companions) with the Arrab- 
biati had raised this alarming tumult. In the midst 
of this confusion, two of the Otto (eight rulers), who 
thought that the dignity of their oflice rendered 
their persons secure, rushed forward to kill Savona- 
rola, but his friends had already formed a circle 
about him and barred all approach. They con- 
ducted him triumphantly through the crowd, back 
to the Convent of St. Mark. 

Pope Borgia now sent his long-threatened letter 
of excommunication, in which every one who would 
not incur the like penalty was prohibited from ren- 
dering the friar any assistance, or having any com- 
munication with him. 

Savonarola wrote a letter declaring the excom- 
munication to be invalid, as it was based upon false 
charges, invented by enemies. 

Yillari says that the effect of this excommunica- 
tion, which was solemnly read in the cathedral, was 
that " profligacy was established as if by incantation ; 
the churches were empty, the taverns full ; wonien 
come forth wearing indecent dresses, and their hith- 
erto hidden jewels; perfumed youths went about 



32 SAVONAROLA, 

singing carnival songs under the windows of 
their mistresses, who no longer blushed when hear- 
in 2^ them. In less than one month the davs of Lo- 
renzo the ^lagnificent seemed to have come back, 
and all thoughts of patriotism and liberty were for- 
gotten." 

Meantime the plague had again broken out, and 
Savonarola was one of the most zealous and luitiring 
of the small band who had the strens^th or courao-e 
to minister to the stricken. 

When Cln-istmas day arrived, his frieods en- 
treated liim to ascend the pulpit once more. lie 
yielded, and celebrated three masses upon that day 
at St. Mai-lv, and the fii-st Simday in Lent (February, 
1498) again appeared in the pulpit of the Duomo ; 
the Archbishop of Florence, Leonardo de' Medici, 
threatened to withhold the communion and burial 
in consecrated ground from any one who was pres- 
ent at Savonarola's discourse. But the Signoria 
showed their resentment by intimating to the Arch- 
bishop that lie must resign his office within two 
hours, or he would be declared to be a rebel. 

This year there was a second bonfire of vanities, 
upon the Piazza della Signoria, in spite of the vio- 
lent opposition of the Compagnacci. The PjTamid 
was surmounted by a figure of Lucifer, surrounded 
by representations of tlie seven mortal sins. The 



SAVONAROLA, 33 

conflagration was even greater tlian on the previous 
year. 

After this the Pope wrote a violent letter to the 
Signoria, threatening to excommunicate the whole 
city if Savonarola, was permitted to preach. The 
Signoria (the officers of which were changed every 
two months) had no alternative, and sent an order 
to Savonarola requesting him to deliver no more 
sermons. The next day, which was the third Sun- 
day in Lent, he took an affectionate leave of the 
people, informing them of the order he had 
received. 

About this time a singular event took place, 
which suddenly turned the capricious current of 
public opinion against Savonarola. Francesco di 
Puglia, preaching in the Church of the Santo Spirito, 
denounced Savonarola's doctrines as heretical, and 
challenged him to the Ordeal by Fire, affirming that 
if Savonarola were truly a servant of the Lord, a 
miracle would certainly be wrought in his behalf, 
and he would issue from the flames unharmed ; but 
if he were burned, his impostures would be made 
manifest, and the people would be awakened from 
their pernicious delusion. The Franciscan monk 
asserted that he was prepared to perish himself for 
the sake of putting Savonarola to the test. 

Savonarola, to the surprise and dismay of his ad- 
2* 



34 SAVONAROLA. 

lierents, refused the cliallenge. lie replied that he 
had other work to do, and that he did not feel him- 
self called upon to undergo this ordeal. But when 
Savonarola declined, his heroic friend, Fra Domenico 
— who was gifted with a stolid fortitude which de- 
fied physical pain — rose up, and boldly accepted the 
challenge. Savonarola rebuked him, and argued 
Vv^ith him — in vain. At last, seeing his unflinching 
resolution, and perfect faith in the triumph that 
awaited him, the conviction was forced upon Sav- 
onarola that Fra Domenico must be acting under 
the promptings of inspiration, and that the Lord 
would guard him through the fii'e. 

The Franciscan monk, who evidently had antici- 
pated Savonarola's refusal, rejected Fra Domenico 
as a substitute, and proclaimed that he would only 
undergo the ordeal vrith Savonarola. But Fra 
Domenico was resolved, and the Signoria felt 
bound to urge Francesco di Puglia to consent ; for 
all the friars of St. Mark, and of the Dominican 
convent of Fiesole, had offered to pass through the 
fii-e, and had compelled Savonarola to make known 
their wishes to the Signoria, and to desire that body 
to select one of the Dominican order for every 
Minorite who would accept the challenge. The ex- 
citement rose to such a pitch that men, women, and 



. SAVOIfAEOLA. 35 

even cliildren, in crowds offered themselves as can- 
didates to pass through the flames. 

The 7th of April was fixed upon for the trial, 
Fra Ginliano Rondinelli was accepted to accompany 
Era Domenico. Francesco di Puglia, who had given 
the challenge, held himself in readiness, he said, to 
enter the flames with Savonarola, but with him onlv. 
The city was in a state of frenzied enthusiasm to 
witness the proposed spectacle. Upon the famous 
Piazza della Signoria lay the pile of fagots — wood 
sprinkled with gunpowder, oil, and resinous sub- 
stances. It was eight feet long, ten feet wide at 
the base, and 'Q.Ye feet high. In the middle was a 
passage two feet wide, through which the champi- 
ons were to pass. 

"When the mace-bearers of the Signoria announced 
that the hour for the trial had arrived, the friars of 
St. Mark immediately went forth in procession. 
Fra Domenico walked between his brethren, Mala- 
testa Sacramoro and Francesco Salviati. He was 
perfectly confident, and eager for the test. He wore 
a bright red velvet cape, and carried a tall cross. 
Savonarola followed him in a white robe, bearing 
the sacrament. The Piazza was thronged, and the 
windows, balconies, and roofs of the surrounding 
houses perilously crowded. 

A body of three hundred infantry had been sta- 



So SA VOyAF.OZA. 

tioned in front of the Losrsria de Lanzi, commanded 
bv llarcuccio Salviati, a faithful adherent of Savon- 
arola. But there were also -Qxe hundred Com- 
pagnacci, Savonarola's bitterest foes, under the lead- 
ership of the brutal Dolfo Spini, and five hundred 
of the infantry of the Signona stationed in front of 
the palace. Thus there were a thousand armed 
men, masters of the Piazza, all ready to offer any 
indignity to Savonarola, or even to do him any per- 
sonal injury. 

The monks of St. Mark had taken their appointed 
places, but Francesco di Puglia and GiuHano Pon- 
diiielli had not yet made their appearance. They 
were in the palace, holding a secret conference vdth 
the Signoria. The Minorite fi"iars now began lo in- 
vent causes for delay, and, if possible, to raise up 
obstacles to the ordeal. They ordered the Director 
of the ordeal to say that the red cape of Fra Dom- 
enico might ha^-e been charmed by Savonarola, and 
must be removed. Fra Domenico at once took off 
the suspected cape. Then the Minorites said that 
his ^ivm mi^rht have been charmed. Fra Domeni- 
CO willingly consented to lay it aside. He was 
taken into the palace, and put on the dress of the 
Dominican, Alessandi'O Strozzi. After this the 
Minontes would not allow him near Savonarola, 



SAVONAROLA. 37 

expressing a fear that the latter might renew his 
incantations. 

The crowd, which had been waiting, eagerly ex- 
pectant, for many hours, now became impatient at 
the delay, and their mnrmnrs- soon broke ont into a 
tumult. The Arrabbiati had agreed among them- 
selves that they would take advantage of any disor- 
der to seize Savonarola and put him to death. They 
made the attempt, but Salviati kept his soldiers 
close before the Loggia, and drawing a line on the 
ground with his sword, cried out, " Whoever passes 
this line will find what the weapon of Marcuccio 
Salviati can do ! " 

Order was hardly restored when a violent storm 
of thunder and lightning broke over the heads of 
the people, and threatened to put an end to the trial. 
But the populace were too pertinaciously determined 
to behold the spectacle to stir from their places. 
They remained unmoved until the pouring rain un- 
expectedly ceased. 

The Minorites now requested that Fra Domenico 
would lay down the crucifix he held in his hand. 
He complied, and Savonarola substituted the Sacra- 
ment. The Minorites violently protested; to bear 
the consecrated host into the flames would be sacri- 
lege, and could not be permitted. Savonarola and 
Fra Domenico refused to yield this point, and an 



38 SAVOJVABOLA. 

argument arose between them and the Minorite 
friars, who were rejoiced at the delay. The Signo- 
ria took advantage of this dispute to order that tlie 
trial should not take place. 

The populace were thi^own into a state of indignant 
fury and disappointment, and turned their wrath up- 
on Savonarola. Even his own party maintained 
that, others failing, he ought to have walked alone 
through the fire, and miraculously exhibited his su- 
pernatural powers. His enemies openly accused 
him of cowardice, and of having been proved an im- 
postor. Friends and foes wanted to see a miracle ; 
they woidd have a miracle ; and if Savonarola were 
a man of God, a miracle must be wrought in his 
person ! But for the brave soldiers of the noble 
Salviati, who, with then- drawn swords, defended 
Savonarola and Fra Domenico as^ainst the enras^ed 
mob, they would not have reached the Convent of 
St. Mark alive. 

Savonarola had worked no miracle! He had 
cheated his disciples out of the wondrous spectacle 
every heart palpitated to behold ! From that hour 
he was torn fi'om the pedestal to which popular 
love and orratitude had raised him. Who cared that 
the city had owed its freedom and its purification 
from the worst abuses to him? Or that he had 
taught the Florentines how to frame their new gov- 



SAVONAROLA. 39 

ernmeiit ? Or that when others fled from the pesti- 
lence he had tended the plague-stricken with never- 
flagging dovotion ? Or that liis voice had consoled 
the starving, and kept alive their d}dng hopes when 
gaunt Famine walked the streets ? Or that he had 
rescued this fair city from the depredations and 
violence of the French army, and prevailed upon 
the French King to take his departure? Tv^iat 
were all the friar's benefactions if he could work no 
miracle — if he would not even trust his body to the 
flames ? 

Xot only did the Minorite friars consider them- 
selves the victors, though their champion had not 
even appeared upon the piazza, but the Signoria 
awarded them an annual pension of sixty lire for 
seventy years, "as a reward for the services they 
had rendered." 

The fi'iars of the Convent of St. Mark could not 
appear in the streets without being insulted, called 
h}^ocrites and impostors, and having stones thrown 
at them. 

On the afternoon of Palm Sunday, the 8th of 
April, the Convent of St. Mark w^as* attacked by a 
mob, headed by the Arrabbiati. The people who 
were attending vespers in the church were assaulted 
by a volley of stones. The church was rapidly 
vacated and the doors of the convent barred. Sav- 



40 SAVONASOLJl 

onarola's small band of remaining friends, in num- 
ber about thirtr, stationed themselves within, to de- 
fend the convent. Foreseeing the danger, they 
had concealed weapons in a small chamber -in the 
cloister, unknown to Savonarola. Thej armed six- 
teen of the friars, who presented a most singular 
appearance, with helmets on theii* heads, halberts in 
their hands, and cuirasses over their long Domin- 
ican gowns. 

While the assailants were thundering at the 
doors, Savonarola implored his self -constituted de- 
fenders to lay down their arms, and proposed to 
give himself up without delay. Xeither his secular 
friends nor the friars would listen to this sugges- 
tion. Soon the mace-bearers arrived with a procla- 
mation fi'om the Signoria, ordering eveiw one in the 
convent to surrender, and announcing that Savonar- 
ola was banished, and must leave within twelve 
hours. 

The fury of the attacking party increased. 
They set fire to the doors, while some scaled the 
walls and got into the cloisters. They sacked the 
infirmary and the cells, and entered into the sa- 
cristy, breaking open the dooi-s of the choir, where 
Savonarola and his followers were at prayer. The 
friars struck at the intruders with their lighted can- 
dles and crucifixes, putting them to sudden flight, 



SArOJ:^ABOLA. 4:1 

for tliey believed themselyes attacked by a com- 
pany of angels. 

In spite of Savonarola's entreaties, new encounters 
with the assailants followed, the convent bell was 
tolled, and every moment the tumult heightened. 
The convent seemed to be gaining the victory when 
a new proclamation was received from the Signoria, 
stating that all who did not leai^e the convent 
within an hour would be considered rebels. And 
now the tide of war changed and the assailants 
were triumphant, and Giovacchino della Yecchia, 
who commanded the palace guard, threatened to 
destroy the convent buildings with his artillery if 
Savonarola, Fra Domenico, and Fra Salvestro were 
not given up. Savonarola's friends entreated him 
to escape, by being let down the wall on a side that 
had not been reached by his adversaries: but Savon- 
arola chose to surrender ; so did his faithful friend, 
Fra Domenico. Fra Salvestro concealed himself, 
and was not found until the next day. 

Yillari thus describes the scene : " The two 
friends had no sooner come down into the cloisters 
than the mob, pressing aromid them, gave a shout of 
ferocious joy. All were now insane with rage. It 
was eight o'clock in the evening. The dense mob 
looked like a tumultuous sea of helmets, cuirasses, 
swords, and spears, from which the light of lanterns 



^-' SAVOXAHOLA. 

and torches was dimly reflected- The people gazed 
on SaTonarola -vrith threatening looks, and holding 
up their lanterns to his face, exclaimed : ' This is 
the true light ! ' They scorched and bmTied his face 
^th their iiambeanx, saying, *' Xotv for a turn of the 
key I ' They twisted his fingers, and beat him ; in- 
sultingly calling out : ' Prophesy now to us who it 
was that beat you ! ' So great was their fury, that 
the guards could with difficulty protect him, by 
crossincr their arms and shields over him." 

When they reached the palace, the two friars 
were brought before the Gonf aloniere to be interro- 
Sfated. He asked if they asserted that their words 
came from God, and when they replied in the affir- 
matiye, caused them to be thrown into separate cells. 
On the morrow, Fra Salyestro was seized and incar- 
cerated. 

On the 11th of April, the Signoria appointed a 
committee of seventeen examiners to conduct the 
trial of the three monks, and gave permission for 
the use of torture. Among this committee were the 
deadliest, most open enemies of Savonarola — Piero 
degli Alberti, who exhibited fierce hatred on the day 
of the ordeal ; and Dolf o Spini, the ferocious leader 
of the Compagnacci, who headed the tumult on ^Vs- 
cension Day, and also when the convent was attacked 
— who had tried to kill Savonarola bv means of 



SAVONAROLA. 43 

hired assassins — who had even made the attempt 
with his own hands, and been frustrated by Savon- 
arola's guard of friends. 

Savonarola was questioned, arid, remaining firm 
in his replies, the mihappy friar, in spite of his deli- 
cate and debilitated frame, his sensitive nature and 
nervous temperament, was at once subjected to the 
torture of the hoisting rope. In this kind of torture 
a rope is attached to a pulley on a high pole, the vic- 
tim has his hands tied behind his back, and the end 
of the rope wound around his wrists. He is then 
repeatedly drawn up and let down suddenly by the 
executioner; the arms, drawn up backward, are 
made to describe a semicircle ; the pain of the torn 
muscles and fibres is excruciating. The agony 
often produces delirium, and, if protracted, death. 

That Savonarola had a shuddering fear of phy- 
sical pain, that he was unable to support its effects, 
it would be impossible to deny. He had high men- 
tal courage, but his physique lacked all power of 
resistance, and was keenly susceptible to outward 
impressions. As soon as he was subjected to the tor- 
tm-e, his mind began to wander, his answers were 
incoherent, and he wailed out, in his paroxysms of 
agony, " O Lord ! take, oh, take my life ! " The exe- 
cutioner stated that he had never seen any one on 



4^ SAVO:^AEOLA. 

vrhom the torture produced so immediate and so se- 
vere an effect. 

During a month he was repeatedly tortured, and 
the historians Pico and Burlamacchi testify that 
when he was drawn up by the rope, live coals were 
applied to the soles of his feet. 

There seems to have been no doubt in the minds 
of the historians of that day, that the minutes of 
his examination, during torture, were grossly falsi- 
fied ; they are in many instances contradictory, and 
sometimes unintelligible. They represent Savon- 
arola denpng, in his agony, that he spoke fi'om 
Divine inspiration, or had visions, or prophesied, 
and then reasserting that these things were true. 

He was much lowered in the estimation of his 
few remaining disciples by his incapacity to endure 
the torture, and remain coherent and firm in his 
declarations. 

But in spite of all his delirious ravings, and in 
spite of the transparent falsification of the minutes, 
the Signoria found, to their dismay, that Savonarola 
could not be proved guilty of any charge brought 
against him. They had succeeded in humiliating 
him, and wholly destroying the faith reposed in 
Mm by his followers. This was their only tri- 
umph; yet it was one of importance, for it ren^ 
dered his condemnation easier. 



8AV0NAB0LA. 45 

Savonarola was compelled, before eight witnesses, 
to sign the copy of his own depositions, but Burla- 
macchi asserts that one copy was read to him, and 
then a different one dexterously substituted for his 
signature. 

During his respite from torture, Yillari says, 
" His troubled and wearied mind soon took the di- 
rection of mystical contemplations. His prison be- 
came peopled by supernatural creations, by invisi- 
ble beings, and when once carried off to that world, 
every other thought vanished from his mind." In 
these moments he forgot all the horrors he had un- 
dergone ; forgot his lacerated limbs, his insatiable 
persecutors, his prison walls, and imagined himself 
in the pulpit of the Duomo. His pen was not idle, 
and he wrote his last meditations or sermons, tak- 
ing for his text the Psalmist's words, " In thee, O 
Lord, do I put my trust ; let me never be confoun- 
ded." 

Pope Borgia sent on two commissionei-s to exam- 
ine Savonarola under fresh torture. On the 20th of 
May he was cruelly interrogated before them. On 
the 21st the torture was repeated, and he was ordered 
to appear upon the 23d, to hear his sentence. As 
the minutes of this examination more clearly proved 
the innocence of Savonarola than the previous ones 
had done, they were not signed, nor printed, nor 



40 SAVONAROLA. 

publicly read, according to the established custom. 
Sentence of death was hastily passed upon the* 
three friars, without a single accusation against 
them having been proved. Savonarola begged to 
be allowed to see his condemned brethren. The 
friars met for the first time, after forty days of im- 
prisonment and torture. 

The undaunted and immovable Fra Domenico 
had borne the most severe tortures without flinching, 
never betraying his sufferings, and never wavering 
in his assertions. Fra Salvestro, who was a natural 
somnambulist, and whose organization was, if possi- 
ble, even more sensitive than that of Savonarola, 
had yielded at once to his persecutors, and to es- 
cape the agony he could not endure, had admitted 
or denied whatever was required of him. 

After the interview, Savonarola, on returning to 
his cell, quickly fell asleep. It is related that diir- » 
ing his sleep he seemed to dream, that he smiled, 
and his countenance expressed the most perfect 
serenity. 

The next morning he administered the sacrament 
to the two friars, and took the communion himself. 
At the close of the ceremony, it was announced to 
the condemned that they were to be conducted to 
the Piazza della Signoria — that Piazza where the 
little children, tanght by Savonarola, had substi- 



SAVONAROLA. 47 

tuted hymns for licentious carnival songs ; had so- 
licited alms for the poor, instead of waylaying the 
passer by, and emptying his pnrse to spend its con- 
tents in feasting and carousing ; that Piazza where 
Savonarola had built for them the pyramid upon 
which their earnest young hands had laid the vani- 
ties they had collected fi^om the penitent, and made 
them into a bonfire. 

Three tribunals had been erected on the ringhi- 
era. The first, next to the door of the j)alace, "was 
appropriated to the Bishop of Yasova ; the second 
to the Pope's Conunissioners ; the third was occu- 
pied by the Gonfaloniere (liayor) and the Otto 
(Eight Rulers). In front was a scaffold supporting 
an upright beam, holding another beam, near the 
top, at right angles. An arm of this beam had 
been truncated, to diminish its resemblance to a 
cross. From the beam were suspended three hal- 
ters and three chains. At its foot lay a large heap 
of combustible materials. The friars were senten- 
ced to be hanged from the halters ; the chains were 
then to be wound around their bodies, which were 
to be suspended until consumed. 

The three friars, when they had descended the 
stairs of the palace, were ordered to lay aside their 
gowns. Their scanty woollen under-tunics alone re- 
mained ; their feet were bare. Savonarola showed 



48 SAVOXABOLA. 

great emotion -^hen he received this insulting com- 
mand; bnt resistance Tvonld hare been fniitless; 
and he obeyed, saying : "' Holy dress, ho'^ mnch I 
longed to wear thee I Thon wast granted to me by 
the grace of God, and to this day I have kept thee 
spotless. I do not now leave thee ; thon ait taken 
from me I " 

Their hands were then tied, and they were led 
out into the Piazza, up to the first tribunal, where 
the Bishop of Yasova was seated. The Bishop was 
compelled to obey the orders of the Pope ; but he 
appeared to be greatly agitated, for he loved Savon- 
arola, and had been one of his disciples. He pro- 
nounced the funeral ceremony with a feeble and 
broken voice. The gowns of the friars were re- 
stored to them, that they might be first degraded, 
and then have their sacred vestments removed for 
the last time. It is said that the Bishop's pres- 
ence of mind so completely forsook him, that he for- 
got the words of the formula, and taking hold of 
Savonarola's arm, exclaimed : " I separate thee from 
the Church ^lilitant and Triumphant ! " Savon- 
arola electrified the bystanders by solemnly reply- 
ing, '• ^Militant, — yoirrs is not Triumphant ! " 

The gowns of the friars having been stripped off 
in token of their degradation, they were led up to 
the Pope's Commissioners, from whom they heard 



SAVONAROLA. 49 

their sentence as heretics. Then they were placed 
before the Otto, who, according to the established 
custom, put the sentence to vote, and passed it with- 
out an opposing voice. The condemned were then 
conducted to the scaffold. Savonarola's composure 
was never once disturbed, and his companions were 
equally calm. The ferocious mob hooted and jeered 
at them, and gave utterance to all manner of con- 
tumely, but the martyrs continued as serene as 
though the revilings were unheard. Savonarola's 
last words were, " The Lord has suffered as much 
for me ! " The two friars were executed first. The 
halter suspended from the centre of the beam was 
left for Savonarola. When he mounted the scaff- 
old, after witnessing the death of his companions 
in persecution, he saw the people, with lighted torch- 
es, crowding eagerly to the beam, impatient to light 
the fire, before the spirit had escaped. A voice 
from the crowd cried out, " Prophet, now is the time 
to perform a mii'acle ! " 

The executioner, to please the brutal mob, in- 
dulged in audible jokes. While the body of Savon- 
arola was yet alive and quivering, he made great 
haste, hoping that the fire would reach the martyr 
before life was extinct, but owing to this very speed 
the chain, which he was trying to wind around the 
body, slipped fi^om his hand, and, during the brief 
3 



50 SAVOJU-ABOLA. 

delay occasioned by ids efforts to recover it, Sa- 
vonarola passed into tlie Eternal "World. 

He died in the forty-fifth year of Ms age. This 
martyrdom t(X>k place at ten o'clock in the morning, 
on the 23d of ^laj, 149S. 

At first a current of wind tnmed away the flames 
from the three bodies ; then the fickle popnlace, 
easily swayed by the most trifling incident, cried, 
ont, " A miracle I A miracle ! " Bnt the wind so<:)n 
fell, and the flames rose and enveloped the bodies. 

Still the morbidly excited imaginations of the 
people made them eager to discover S4:>me miracn- 
lons token ; and when the flames canght the cords 
by which the hands of Savonarola were pinioned, 
and the heat caused the hand to move, they de- 
clared that he had raised his right arm in the midst 
of the flames to bless his enemies, who were burn- 
ing hivn ! His disciples fell upon their knees, sob- 
bing wildly, and men and women lamented alond. 

The Arrabbiati coidd not endtire this sight ; they 
hired little children to make a noise, and dance, and 
throw stones at the burning bodies. The favorite, 
barbarons game of stone-throwing, which Savonarola 
had partially abolished, was thtis re-established in the 
presence of his corpse, and was entered into with so 
mnch zest, that large pieces of flesh were cnt from 



SAVONAROLA, 51 

their bodies by tlie sbarp stones, and fell, hissing, 
into the flames beneath. 

Many ladies, disguised as servants, made their 
way through the crowd to the scaffold, to gather up 
relics ; but the soldiers of the Signoria drove them 
back. The Signoria, fearing that the very ashes of 
the martyrs might be made to work some miracle, 
had them collected and thrown over the Ponte 
Yecchio into the Arno. 

But even there those ashes did not prove inacces- 
sible. Yillari tells us that young " Pico della Mi- 
randola although an eminent scholar and learned in 
philosophy, believed that he had been able to pick 
up from the Arno a part of Savonarola's heart, and 
he asserted that he again and again had had experi- 
ence of its miraculous effects in curing many dis- 
eases, and exorcising malignant spirits." 

Henceforward the friars of the Convent of St. 
Mark were relentlessly persecuted by the^ Arrab- 
biati, who were now masters of the city ; they were 
robbed, under various pretexts, and deprived of 
their privileges and freedom. To show to what an 
absurd extent the Arrabbiati carried their animosity, 
we cannot forbear mentioning, that, after much de- 
liberation, they declared the great bell of the con- 
vent, which went by the name of Piagnona, guilty 
of having tolled on the day of the tumult, and they 



52 SAVONAROLA, 

accordingly banished it from Florence. It was 
taken down and cari'ied without the city, in a cart, 
and publicly whipped by the hangman, with as much 
gravity as though all who witnessed the punishment 
actually believed that it was endowed with sensa- 
tion. 

Only a few years later, when the Spanish army 
had replaced the Medici in power over Florence ; 
when all Italy was scom-ged ; when Clement YII. 
became Pope, and Charles Y. sacked the Eternal 
City ; when chm-ches were converted into barracks 
for soldiers and stables for horses — the prophecies 
of Savonarola seemed fulfilled to the letter. Men 
never tired of pointing out how the events he had 
foretold literally came to pass : his sermons were in 
every one's hand, and the Convent of St. Mark be- 
came the powerful centre of the most faithful 
friends of liberty and lovers of their native land. 

Well might Mi's. Browning say of Savonarola : 

" ' Tis trae that when the dust of death has choked 
A great man's voice, the common words he said 
Turn oracles." 



VITTOEIA COLONNA 



Who ever walked through the Colonna Gallery at 
Home without pausing before the portrait of Yitto- 
ria Colonna, the great Italian poetess ? The face is 
one of surpassing beauty — singularly pure in out- 
line and perfect in regularity of feature ; the eyes 
are large, soft, contemplative ; the forehead grand ; 
the lips full and finely curved ; the hair of that mol- 
ten gold which haunted Titian's dreams, and be- 
came tresses of sunshine upon his canvas. Rarely 
has an angelic spirit, affluent in intellectual gifts, 
been enshrined in mortal mould of such absolute 
loveliness ; for Yittoria Colonna's " clayey part " ♦ 
was but a faint reflex of the gloriously beautiful 
shape within. 

In olden days, as in modern, poetesses seldom 
looked poetical ; true hearts and noble minds vvxre 
often disguised in earthly cerements of coarse and 
unshapely clay. That " something in this world 
amiss^"^ which, Tennyson tells us, " shall be unrid- 
dled by and by," creates a want of harmony between 

53 



54 VITTORIA COLONNA. 

the innei' and tlie outer development. Well may we 
contemplate with refreshing delight such an excep- 
tion to tliis perplexing rule of incongruity as the It- 
alian poetess presents. 

Yittoria Colonna was the daughter of Fabrizio 
Colonna, brother of that prothonotary Colonna, who 
was decapitated, after tortm-es of inconceivable 
cruelty, at the instigation of the hereditary enemies 
of his family, the Orsini,- and by the order of 
Pope Sixtus rV. Yittoria's mother was Agnes of 
Montefebe, daughter of Frederick, Duke of Ur- 
bino. 

At the time of Yittoria's birth (1190), the 
princely house of Colonna had reached its meridian 
splendor. Yittoria was born at Marino. The 
castle and town pictui-esquely nestle among the hills 
that surround the lovely lake of Albano, and of the 
many Hefs held by the Colonna in the neighbor- 
hood of Rome, this was considered the most beau- 
tifuL 

"\Yhen the Colonna took service under Frederick 
II. of Xaples, that king, to render more secure his 
hold over his new and powerful friends, betrothed 
the infant Yittoria, then five years of age, to Fer- 
dinand d'Avalos, a child of the same age, son of 
Alphonso, Marquis of Pescara. 

Costanza d'Avalos, Duchess of Francavilla, the 



VITTOBIA COLONNA. 55 

elder sister of the hoj fiancee, was one of the 
most cultivated, pure, and highly refined women of 
her day. Shortly after the betrothal of the chil- 
dren, the Marquis of Pescara lost his life, through 
the treachery of a black slave. The young Ferdi- 
nand was his heir, and, on the death of Costanza's 
husband. King Ferdinand made her chatelaine of 
the picturesque little island of Iscliia. The infant 
Yittoria was then transferred to her charge, to re- 
ceive her education in company with her future 
bridegroom. 

A year later. King Ferdinand II. died, deeply 
lamented by every class of his people, and especially 
mourned at Ischia. 

When the children were eleven years old, the 
harmonious routine of their days of blended study 
and pastime was broken by the presence of dis- 
crowned royalty. The French had sacked Capua, 
and were advancing upon Naples; and Frederick, 
the last of the Aragonese kings, with his queen and 
children, sought refuge on the rock-bou.nd island of 
Ischia until he threw himself upon the generosity 
of the French king. 

Love seems to have been equally strong in the 
hearts of both affianced children. When the youth- 
ful couple had entered their nineteenth year, Cos- 
tanza deemed it time for their marriage to be cele- 



56 YITTOBIA COLOSSA. 

brated- Yittooa made a farewell visit to her par- 
ents at Marino, and returned to IscMa, escorted by 
alaige eompany of Boman nobles^ idio came to be 
pi^sent at bar niqptidbw 

In beanfj of peison tbe joung Pe^ara. seems to 
hsve been a fitting mate for TiHom. His biogra- 
rapber, Giani, dms de^zibes hnm : " His beard was 
anbam, bk nose aquiliiie, bis eyes large and Sexy 
-wben exeiled^ bet mild and genOe at oliis' timesw" 

TTft bad many VwigbtTy aeeomplMbment^ but bis 
bearing was bangbty, Ms speedi brief and grave, 
and be kept akM]f from all famiEar inteieoiiise ; 
to Tittaria, however, be was all gentlene^ and ten- 
derness. 

After tKeir nuptial^ two jeais of tranquil and 
TEnintermpted joy, sodli as mortals seldom taste, 
weie granted tfie yondifal pair. Later in life, Tit- 
tcHia o^en and 0^01 leems to bsr blessed dbildbood, 
and to tho^ two yeais of milHOiken,ec;3taitie felicily, 
in ber ba^qpy i^bnd homeL 

Bat Pescara was a soldier ; not to fi^t as soon 
as be reaebed manhood, was to be didionoTed. At 
tbe close of those two idylHe year% when be was. 
twenty-one^ he acccxnpanied Yittoria's fatber, and 
joined ^le army in LcHnbardy. 

Severely as tbe yonng hnsband and wife snfEered 
frcffli this separation, even tbe gentle, clinging Tit- 



VITTOBIA COLONNA, 57 

toria never souglit to be spared the pang of parting ; 
shp never forgot that she was the daughter and the 
wife of a soldier. When it was suggested that her 
liusband was the sole surviving scion of a noble 
house, and ought to be absolved from risking his 
life upon the battle-field, she repelled the counsel as 
indignantly as the young soldier himself. Cour- 
ageously she sent him forth with the olden motto on 
his shield, " With this, or on this." 

Yittoria remained at Ischia with Costanza. The 
dwellers on the little island were always surrounded 
by a brilliant circle of wits, and poets, and literary 
men, whose society both ladies thoroughly enjoyed. 
There was no fear of scandal, for even the foulest 
tongue would not have dared to sully Yittoria's 
name by the suggestion that she was consoled for 
the absence of her husband by the admiration of 
other men. 

In his very first battle, Pescara was made prisoner. 
Yittoria's father met the same fate. The united 
Spanish and Papal arms were defeated by the 
French, before Kavenna, 9th of April, 1512. Pes- 
cara was picked up on the field, where he had been 
left for dead, and carried captive to Milan. Dur- 
ing his imprisonment he composed a "Dialogo 
d'Amore," which he inscribed and sent to his wife. 
3* 



58 VITTOBIA COLONNA. 

' The Bishop of Como asserts that this dialogue was 
full of grave and witty thoughts. 

Pangs of sorrow gave birth to Yittoria's muse. 
The first poetic production was a letter, in verse, of 
one hundred and twelve lines, addressed to her hus- 
band in his prison. One naturally smiles at the 
j^un which breaks in upon her lamentations, but 
when we remember the elegantly turned puns of 
Shakespeare's heroines, involuntarily uttered in the 
most agonizing situations, we must pardon the Ital- 
ian poetess for saying, — 

"Se Vittoria volevi, io t'era appresso, 
Ma tu, lasciandome, lasciavi lei. " 

" If victory was thy desire, I was by thy side ; 
but in leaving me, thou didst leave also her.^"^ 

Pescara's captivity was robbed of much of its dis- 
comfort through the influence of a general in the 
service of France, who had married the prisoner's 
aunt. As soon as his wounds were healed, he was 
permitted to ransom himself for six thousand duc- 
ats. Yittoria had the great joy of welcoming her 
husband once more to their island home. 

The maternal principle was strongly developed in 
her affectionate nature, and the holy presence of in- 
fancy soon became indispensable to her perfect fel- 
icity — but she remained childless. 

Her husband had a young cousin, Alfonso d'Ava- 



VITTORIA COLONNA. 59 

los, Marchese del Yasto, whose disposition was so 
violent and ungovernable, that guardians, tutors, 
servants, alike shrank from him in terror. Every 
attempt to train or educate him had proved futile ; 
yet he was endowed with fine mental capacities, 
and with personal beauty of the highest order. 
This boy Yittoria fearlessly adopted, declaring that 
he only needed prudent and loving management to 
become a superior man. The boy was quickly in- 
spired with a sort of chivalric devotion for her ; his 
passionate nature, rightly moulded and dii*ected, 
proved to be full of strength and nobility. She 
magnetized to the surface every dormant good im- 
pulse, and cultivated his heart as well as his mind. 
He owed to her his love of literature and his schol- 
arly attainments. The turbulent youth became a 
refined, whole-souled man, and a soldier of renown. 
Yittoria had ample cause to rejoice over the frui- 
tion of her glorious work, and Alfonso's ever-endur- 
ing love brightened her life in its darkest hours. 
She used to say, with » exultation, that the reproach 
of being childless should be removed from her 
name, for she had given mental birth to a child in 
developing the mind and moral nature of a being 
whom no other hand had been able to master. 

After a few months of domestic happiness, Pes 
cara joined the army in Lombardy. 



60 VITTORIA GOLONNA. 

Yittoria remained at Ischia, surrounded, as be- 
fore, by poets and men of letters. Some of the 
most celebrated writers in Europe visited her little 
island, and immortalized its beauties. Tasso was 
among their number ; he eloquently celebrates the 
brilliant Ischia reunions of choice spirits. Yittoria 
had herself become an enthusiastic votary of the 
muse, and her lyre was never more silent. 

Pescara's duties in camp only permitted him at 
long intervals to pay brief visits to Ischia. In Oc- 
tober, 1522, he remained with Yittoria three days, 
and then retuiTied to the army. Battle quickly 
succeeded battle, and she never saw him more. 

At the age of thirty-live, he was made general-in- 
chief to Charles Y., but, in spite of his undeniable 
valor and soldierly achievements, the proofs that he 
was false to his king are only too strong. 

Pope Clement YII. tempted him to turn traitor 
to Charles, and use the armies under his command 
to crush the Spanish power in Italy. The throne 
of ISTaples was promised him, as the price of liis 
treason. Pescara undoubtedly entertained the over- 
tures, but it chanced that a messenger, bearing letters 
which would have revealed the whole conspiracy, 
was robbed and murdered, by an innkeeper at Ber- 
gamo, and l^uried under a staircase. As time 
passed and no tidings were received, the conspir- 



VITTOBIA COLONNA. 61 

ators concluded that the letters had been forcibly 
taken from their courier, and the blot would be 
made known to Charles. Pescara determined to 
save his own reputation by a clever stratagem. He 
wrote to Charles, and coupled with assurances of 
the greatest loyalty the information that certain 
conspirators had made him propositions to which he 
had listened for the sake of detecting and frustrat- 
ing their machinations. 

This complicity is too strongly proved by a letter 
from Yittoria, in which she vehemently urges her 
husband not to be lured from the path of honor by 
any temptations, and tells him that she has " no 
wish to be the wife of a hing, but only of a loyal 
and ttj[)right manr 

It is thought by some historians that this letter, 
and not the disappearance of the messenger, saved 
Pescara from becoming a traitor to his monarch. 

Charles credited Pescara's tale, and made him 
generalissimo of the imperial forces in Italy. In 
the same year he was taken ill, at Milan, and sent 
for Yittoria. She set out with all speed, but had 
only reached Yiterbo when she received the tidings 
of his death. He died on the 25th of IsTovember, 
1525, was buried at Milan, but shortly afterward 
carried to Naples, and interred mth great pomp. 

Yittoria's love had been boundless, and her sorrow 



62 VITTORIA COLONNA. 

had no limit. She gave herseK up to the most fran- 
tic bewailing, " not comforted to live," because Pes- 
cara was gone. 

And what manner of man w^s it who inspired love 
so large and grief so great ? Some paragon of virtue, 
doubtless ! Alas ! for the truth. The reader starts 
in amazement and shrinks in horror at learning what 
all history testifies. Tliis idol, raised for heart-wor- 
ship by one of the purest, loveliest, most gifted of 
God's creatures, was a man base and infamous, cruel 
as a savage, merciless as a heathen. Two virtues he 
had, and apparently only two — he was a brave sol- 
dier, and he loved Yittoria. 

" lie was reckless of human suffering," savs the 
historian, '' and eminent even among his fellow-cap- 
tains for the ferocity and often wantonness of the 
ravages and wide-spread misery he wrought." " The 
cruelty he committed was worse than Turks would 
have been guilty of." 

An anecdote illustrates his pitiless sternness as a 
disciplinarian. He had ordered the ears of a soldier 
to be cut off for entering a house for the purpose of 
plunder. The man implored that his ears miglit be 
spared, and he cried out in his anguish that deatli 
would be preferable to losing them. Pescara, with 
savage jocoseness, at once bade his soldiers, since the 
culprit ;pref erred death, to hang him to a neighbor- 



VITTOBIA COLONNA. 63 

ing tree. In vain the wretch shrieked for mercy — ■ 
he was seized and hanged, while Pescara enjoyed 
the joke of having taken him at his word. 

Guicciardini states that he has often heard the 
Chancellor Morone declare " that there did not exist 
a worse or more faithless man in all Italy than Pes- 
cara." 

And this is the man whom Yittoria's love sur- 
rounds with such a radiant halo, that his character 
seems resplendent with the most glorious yirtues; 
this is the man whom she makes the theme of a long 
series of poems "in memoriam" — the man whom 
she calls her hel sole, for whose dear sake she is tor- 
mented to commit suicide, whom she longs for 
death to rejoin, and then chides herself for wishing 
to die, because haply her mrtue may not suffice to 
enable her to rejoin him. in the mansions of the 
blest ! Can love's power to idealize be more forci- 
bly and wondrously illustrated ? 

She had entered her tliirty-sixth year when she 
became a widow, and the wi-iters of that day pro- 
nounce her beauty in its meridian glory. The med- 
als struck at Milan, just Kefore her husband's death, 
bear witness to her supreme loveliness. She was, 
even then, styled the most celebrated woman in 
Italy, but her renown as a poetess became much 
greater at a later period. 



64 - VITTOBIA CQLONNA. 

The fii-st stunning prostration of her grief caused 
Yittoria to attempt to shut herself out wholly and 
forever from that world which she had hitherto 
found so beautiful and so full of enjoyment. She 
hastened to Rome, and immured lierself in the con- 
vent of San Silvestro, resolved to take the veil. 
But the Bishop of Carpenti*as, a man of letters and 
a poet, Yittoria's personal friend, saw the fatal rash- 
ness of the act into which grief had hurried her, and 
induced Pope Clement to send a letter to the abbess 
and nuns of San Silvestro, charging them to shelter 
and console the Marchesa di Pescara, but absolutely 
f orbiddino; them to let her take the veil. 

She had resided at the convent neai4y a year when 
a new quarrel arose between the Colonna family and 
the Pope. Yittoria's brother, Ascanio, her sole pro- 
tector, now insisted upon her leaving the convent 
and hasteniug to Marino. A little later the Colonna 
faction sacked the Yatican and the houses of their 
mortal enemies, the Orsini. For this act of yiolence, 
Cardinal Colonna was deprived of his hat, and the 
estates of all the family were confiscated. 

Yittoria once more took up her abode in the little 
island which had borne the footprints of her hus- 
band's feet, from infancy to manhood — which had 
been the scene of such rich joys, and was now the 
gra^'e of so many hopes. Her first passionate burst 



YITTOBIA COLONNA. 65 

of anguish had softened into a quiet moui-nf ulness, 
and from that time her true poetical career may be 
said to have begun. Writing poetry became 
the chief occupation of her life. One hundred and 
thirty-four of her sonnets were lamentations over 
her loss, or written in honor of her husband's mem- 
ory. The distinguished men and women of that 
day hailed with delight the appearance of each new 
poetical effusion, an(J. wrote in its praise to the sor- 
rowing songstress. Her works passed into three 
editions dm-ing her lifetime — which in that day 
was equivalent to thirty in this. 

It is a remarkable fact, that this beautiful and 
gifted woman, who had all her life been the centre 
of a crowd of worshippers, so thoroughly impressed 
every one who knew her with the sense of her per- 
fect purity, that she seems to have been the rare ex- 
ception to the rule which prevents the chastest from 
escaping calumny. 

Numerous suitors she, of course, had, but when 
she refused the hand which had been once be- 
stowed with her heart, and could never be given 
again, ardent lovers became devoted and life-long 
friends. 

Trollope says; " We find her uninfluenced by the 
bitter hereditary hatreds of her family, striving to 
act as peace-maker between hostile factions, and 



66 VITTOBIA COLONNA. 

weeping over the miscliief occasioned by their 
struggles. Yv^e find her the constant correspondent 
and valued friend of almost every good and great 
man of her day." He adds : " The learned and ele- 
gant Bembo writes of her, that he considered her po- 
etical judgment as sound and authoritative as that 
of the greatest masters of the art of song." Guidic- 
cioni, the poetical Bishop of Fossombrone, and one 
of Paul III.'s ablest diplomats, declares that the an- 
cient glory of Tuscany had altogether passed into 
Latium in her person ; and sends her sonnets of 
his own, with earnest entreaties that she will point 
out the faults. Veronica Gambara, hei'self a poet- 
ess, of merit perhaps not inferior to that of Yitto- 
ria, professed herself her most ardent admirer, and 
engaged Hinaldo Corso to write the commentary on 
her poems, which he executed as we have seen. 
Bernardo Tasso made her the subject of several of 
his poems. Giovii dedicated to her his life of Pes- 
cara, and Cardinal Pompeo Colonna his book " On 
the Praises of Women," and Contarini paid her the 
far more remarkable compliment of dedicating to 
her his work on " Free Will." 

In 1530, the pestilence raged in Kaples, and even 
reached Ischia. Yittoria was compelled to fly to 
Rome. The Colonna family had made their peace 
with Pope Clement, and their fiefs had been re- 



VITTOBIA COLONNA, 67 

stored to them. The Poetess resided with her bro- 
ther Ascanio and his beautifjil and accomplished 
wife, Donna Giovanna d'Aragona. Yittoria's 
adopted son and pupil, the Marchese del Yasto, was 
also at Rome, and his presence was always a joy to 
her. Yet she grew restless and ill at ease away 
from her island home, and hastened back, as soon 
as safety permitted. 

At the close of six years, she was again induced 
by her brother and adopted son to visit Rome. Her 
fame had increased with every year, and it is re- 
corded that her stay in Rome was one continued 
ovation. 

Her religious impulses were strong and pure, 
and she was prompted to the study of theology that 
she might know something of the God whom she 
worshipped. A year after this visit to the holy city 
she first evinced Protestant tendencies. Renee of 
France had married Hercules II., whose sympathies 
were avowedly with the Protestant party. These sym- 
pathies had rendered the Court of Ferrara the re- 
sort, and in some instances the refuge, of many 
professors of the new ideas which were beginning 
to agitate Italy. Yittoria visited Ferrara for the pur- 
pose of exchanging views upon this vexed question 
with some of the leading minds assembled there. 

Duke Hercules and his court paid her the highest 



6S VITTOBIA COLO^IfA. 

honors, and invited the most distinguished poets and 
men of letters in Venice and Lombardy to meet 
her. 

At Ferrara, she conceived the idea of making a 
journey to the Holy Land, though she was then in 
failing health. Her adopted son went to Terrara 
to dissuade her, and after much entreaty, induced 
her to retui-n to Home instead. Her presence in 
the Papal capital was once more the signal for pub- 
lic rejoicings. 

That she was an advocate of religious reform, her 
poetry gives ample testimony, though her Italian bi- 
ographers make great efforts to maintain her ortho- 
doxy. TroUope declares that '• Vittoria Colonna has 
survived in men's minds as a poetess. But she is far 
more interesting to the historical student who would 
obtain a full understanding of that wonderful six- 
teenth centm-y, as a Protestant. Her highly gifted 
and richly cultivated intelhgence, her great social 
position, and above all her close intimacy with the 
eminent men who strove to set on foot an Italian 
reformation which should not be incompatible with 
the Papacy, made the illustration of her religious 
opinions a matter of no slight historical interest." 

It was shortly after her return to Eome fi-om 
Ferrara, in the year 1537, that a tender and durable 
friendship sprang up between the renowned poetess 



VITTOBIA COLONN'A. 69 

and the great sculptor and painter, Michael Angelo. 
He was in his sixty-third year, and she in her forty- 
seventh. It was through his association with Yittoria 
Colonna, that the rugged, stern, self -intelligent old 
man became a devout Christian. In the poems 
which he addresses to her, he attributes that change 
wholly to her influence. 

The letters of Yittoria to Michael Angelo are pre- 
served as the most treasured possessions of his de- 
scendants. The last was written after the sculptor 
became architect of St. Peters, and she tells him 
playfully that her duties to the youthful inmates of 
the Convent of St. Catherine, at Yiterbo, and his du- 
ties as architect at St. Peter's, must prevent a fre- 
quent correspondence. 

In this same year, 1544, she returned from Yit- 
erbo to Kome, and took up her residence in the. Con- 
vent of the Benedictines of St. Anne. Her health, 
long delicate, now began to fail rapidly. When she 
became seriously worse, she v/as removed from the 
convent to the house (which chanced to be near) 
of the only one of her kindred then left in Pome 
— Giuliano Cesarini, the husband of Giulia Co- 
lonna. 

Her brother and son were both at a distance, but 
Michael Angelo, her ever true and devotedly at- 
tached friend, sat beside her couch as her pure and 



70 YITTOBIA COLONNA, 

lovely spirit gained its freedom. It is said that he 
often mourned in remembering that he had not 
dared to press his lips for the only time, upon the 
noble but clay-cold forehead. 

She died in February, 1554, in the fifty-seventh 
year of her age. 

Yittoria well knew that her works were a more 
lasting monument than could be carved out of stone, 
and she ordered that her funeral should closely re- 
semble that given to the nuns in the convent where 
she had resided ; and like theirs her place of sepul- 
ture remains unmarked. 




GALILEO'S VILLA. 



Chief among the memorable villas which girdle 
Florence, and have been consecrated by the foot- 
prints of the illustrious dead, are the villas in which 
the renowned Galileo resided — the villa where he 
lived and hoped and rejoiced! the villa where he 
suffered, despaired, and died ! 

The villa del Gioiello, usually called Galileo's 
villa, is situated beyond the hill Arcetri. It is an 
ivy-di*aped, gloomy, desolate-looking abode, and the 
heavy atmosphere of the place is rendered more 
oppressive by the melancholy inscription on the outer 
wall, which records that in this villa the great astron- 
omer and philosopher passed the closing years of his 
life, afflicted with blindness, the victim of Papal 
persecution, abandoned by his powerful Medicean 
patrons ; but still surrounded by a few faithful 
friends, who reverently received the last inspira- 
tions of his towering genius. 

Xot far from this villa is the rude tower called 
Galileo's observatory. 

(71) 



72 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

But it is in the quaint old villa which crowns the 
lovely height of Bellosquardo, and is also celebrated 
as the residence of Gtdcardini^ the historian, 
Galileo's contemporary and friend, that Galileo 
passed fourteen years before bigotry's iron heel 
crushed out of his heart every buoyant and ex- 
pectant throb, and before the hand of affliction had 
drawn the pall of blindness between him and that 
glorious firmament whose luminaries, watched by his 
speculative eyes, had filled the world with the new 
light of science. 

There is a bust of Galileo near the northern en- 
trance of the villa, with a tablet chronicling his res- 
idence within those walls. 

Upon what is now called the Piazza di JBello- 
squardo, opens the somewhat imposing gateway 
which leads to the front entrance of the villa, through 
a brief carriage-path, lined on either side with lau- 
rustinus, arbutus, yellow jessamine, cluster roses, with 
a few fine trees shooting far above the flowering 
shrubbery. The grounds are by no means extensive, 
but they are so dexterously laid out in winding 
walks, dotted by tiny gardens, with here and there 
sudden openings among the trees, disclosing the 
most enchanting views, that they produce the effect 
of both space and variety. 

It is said that Galileo had a passion for flowers/ 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 73 

and delighted in cultivating his garden with his own 
hands. What aspect these limited pleasure-grounds 
must have presented nearly two centuries and a half 
ago, it is not difficult to conjecture; for Galileo, 
who trod them for fourteen years, could not have 
cherished his floral tastes in such a suggestive local- 
ity, without causing that teeming earth to bloom out 
into even fuller, richer beauty than it boasts at the 
present day. 

This ^dlla was formerly called villa Albizzi, but it 
now bears the name of Villa delV Ombrellino — 
Villa of the Little Umbrella. It received this desig- 
nation from a rudely shaped species of wooden um- 
brella, with a circular bench running round the 
stem. This unpoetical-looking substitute for a sum- 
mer-house stands in the northwest corner of the 
grounds, which juts out over a green valley, and 
overlooks a charming prospect. The Italians have 
so decided a passion for nicknames, that after this 
extraordinary umbrella bower once made its ap- 
pearance, they, doubtless, could not be induced to 
call the villa by any high-sounding title. The 
little umbrella can be seen far down the road 
towards Florence before the villa itself is visible — 
it is consequently the Villa delV Ombrellino to every 
Italian. And a most delightful retreat the unpic- 
turesque Umhrella affords. To one perched upon 
4 



74: GALILEO'S VILLA, 

the circular seat, in days we could tell of, it was a 
never-failing enjoyment to watch, the changing as- 
pect of the surrounding scenery ; for with every al- 
ternation of light the landscape varies, some new 
charm is evoked by the play of the sunshine, and 
some loveliness, very palpable before, has disap- 
peared in the shadow. 

But the prospect revealed from this clumsy, yet 
cosy resting-place is far surpassed by that which 
the terrace commands. The centre of the roof of 
the villa, a square of about twenty feet, is flat, and 
surrounded by an iron railing. Furnished with 
sofas, table, and chairs, it makes a most fascinating 
terrace drawing-room. There before you lies the 
whole city of Florence, with its stately palaces, and 
ancient churches, and striking towers, standing out 
clearly against the blue sky, or only dimly suggest- 
ed by shadowy, dreamy outlines, through the golden- 
grey mist • of morning or evening ; and there is 
the vine and olive clad valley of the Arno ; and there 
is the Cascine^ the favorite promenade or drive, 
the Hyde Park of Florence ; and there is the 
Poggio Imjpericde^ and, leading to it, that 

" abrupt, black line of cypresses 

Whicli sign the way to Florence ;" 

2i\\^Fie8ole, the ever beautiful; and San IIi?iiafo, 
with Michel Angela^ 8 fortifications ; and the en- 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 77 

circling Appennines ; the hills of Yallombrosa and 
Carrara; and on every side countless villas gem- 
ming the landscape, and teeming with romantic his- 
tories; and all down the undulating slopes of the 
Bellosquardo liill, the greenly fertile farms display- 
ing their treasures of grapes and olives and figs. 

But who could venture to describe the glorious 
and ever-varying sunsets watched from that terrace, 
or the marvels conjured to heighten the landscape 
when the molten moonlight lent its own mysterious 
beauty to the scene % But when the moon was ab- 
sent, and even when the stars were obscured, Florence 
was still visible, outlined by her myriad lights ; and 
on the evenings of her illuminations, those outlines 
were clothed with a fl.ickering garment of fire, won- 
derful to behold. 

In 1863 and 1864, the writer was a member of 
the little circle that occupied this villa, and that 
terrace, where Galileo once gazed upon the stars, 
was the favorite place of gathering in the summer 
evenings. Here tea was served, and guests were re- 
ceived. Often from this terrace the melodious voice 
of the songstress has floated over the hills, and enrap- 
tured the ears of listeners in the neighboring villas. 
And, strange to relate, this terrace now and then 
witnessed rehearsals of the little dramas, afterwards 
performed at the English Dramatic Drawing Boom, 



78 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

by the company of amateurs who in the winter of 
1864 and 1865 devoted their talents to charities. 

Once, during om' sojourn in the Galileo villa, its 
spacious old entrance liall was the scene of a dram- 
atic representation, peculiarly appropriate to a Flor- 
entine locality. The play was entitled " The Un- 
known Masterpiece" (a free translation of the 
Chef d^o&uvre de V Inconnu). The great Florentine 
sculptor and painter, Michel Angelo, w^as one of the 
heroes (personated by an American sculptor of tal- 
ent). The Grand Duke of Florence, Casino de' Me- 
dici, was represented by a descendant of the Buon- 
naroti family, fi*om which Michel Angelo sprang. 
The heroine was embodied by a lovely golden-haired 
American maiden, whose delicious voice has given 
her a foremost rank among the nightingales of Flor- 
ence. A youthful page Avas played by the marvel- 
lously gifted little daughter of T. A. Trollope, who 
enchanted the audience by her wonderful vocaliza- 
tion. The young girl, who afterwards evinced so 
much talent at the Dramatic Drawing Room, made 
her debut on the occasion, as the bewitching boy- 
student, brother of the young sculptor who was the 
hero of the drama. The latter character was admira- 
bly personated by a rising young artist, also a lead- 
ing member of the Dramatic Drawing Hoom com- 
pany. 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 79 

Such a festival seemed particularly appropriate 
within walls which the presence of Galileo had con- 
secrated, for he was himself a great lover of the 
drama, and declaimed with much effect. He de- 
lighted in mnsic, and performed v^^ith so much skill 
upon several instruments, especially the lute, that he 
had been counselled in his ^^outh to become a pro- 
fessional musician. 

In truth, Galileo was rich in accomplishments, for 
he was also a proficient in drawing, and evinced a 
taste for all the arts ; besides possessing very wide 
information, a fondness for literature, and great 
command of his pen. 

Galileo Galilei was born at Pisa in 1564. His 
family was noble. His father designed him for a 
physician. He entered the University of Pisa at 
an early age, and quickly distinguished himself. 
He had not completed his twenty-fifth year when he 
filled the chair of Professor of Mathematics. 

In the cathedral of Pisa the stranger is still 
pointed out the lamp which suggested to Galileo, by 
its slow and uniform swinging, the possibility of a 
pendulum as the motive power of clocks. He was 
then only eighteen j^ears of age. He wrote son;ie 
remarkable essays based upon the motion of this 
lamp, but it was not until nearly half a century 



80 GALILEaS VILLA. 

later tliat he actually succeeded in making a pendu- 
lum clock. 

It seems almost incredible, that the man who in- 
vented the thermometer, improved the compas?, 
consti-ucted the telescope, wliich disclosed to him the 
irregular surface of the moon, caused by her valleys 
and mountains ; the spots upon the smi. and showed 
that the !jlilky Way, was a lengthened cluster of 
countless stai-s — that the man who revealed to the 
world these miimagined facts, and who confirmed 
and promulgated the trutli abeady made known by 
Copernicus, that the planets revolved about the sun, 
which is the centre of our system — that this man 
should have been all his life surrounded by enemies 
and detractors, should have lived through a series of 
relentless persecutions, to die their victim. A frank 
but incautious criticism sowed the rapid-springing 
seed of Galileo's fij^st disgrace. 

G-iovanni de Medici, natural son of Casimo I., 
had invented a machine, wliich he submitted to 
the youug Galileo. Giovanni was a poor engineer, 
and a woi*se architect, as the tomb of St. Lawrence, 
for which he furnished the design, testifies. Gahleo, 
who had not yet learned the humiliating lesson, that 
policy is expediency, when princes and potentates 
are to be dealt with, publicly criticised the invention. 
Sentence of bauislimcnt was the result of this te- 



GALILEO'S VILLA, 81 

merity. He took refuge in Yenice, and remained 
in exile for eighteen years. He rapidly achieved 
celebrity. Yery soon he was elected professor of 
mathematics at Padua. Thei-e he published a trea- 
tise on fortifications, one on mechanics, and an ad- 
mirable work on proportions. 

But Galileo yearned for Florence ; and his biog- 
raphers relate, with somewhat severe comments, that 
he availed himself of an occasion to be restored to 
the good graces of the Medici, by a delicate piece 
of flattery. One of his most important telescopic 
revelations was the discovery of the satellites of 
Jupiter. He gave them the name of satellites of 
the Medici, and published in Padua his treatise on 
these satellites. This compliment threw open the 
closed gates of his country ; he received permission 
to return to Florence, and joyfully availed himself 
of the longed-for privilege. 

His honest ingenuousness had banished him — a 
stroke of policy effected his recall. He bowed to 
the exigencies of the times. It was his nature to 
conciliate, rather than to combat, his opponents. 
All through his life, either from timidity or from 
an instinctive shrinking from strife, he tried to avoid 
contest. He strove to win, to convince, to influence 
— not to oppose. Thus we too often find him ap- 
4* 



82 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

parentlj yielding to those who are too obviously in 
the wrong, instead of combating their errors. 

In that age, any deviation from accepted dogmas 
was called heresy ; and nothing ruined a man more 
quickly and more certainly than the accusation of 
heresy. 

Galileo was at heart a sincere Catholic. He loved 
and had perfect faith in the doctrines of the Church, 
and he believed in the Scriptures. When the clergy 
declared to him that the discoveries he had made, if 
veritable, contradicted revealed religion, and were 
wholly at variance with Scriptural statements, it did 
not shake his faith in the religion of revelation. lie 
knew that the facts which he had proclaimed were 
unquestionable ; but he had an internal conviction 
that scientific truths could be reconciled with Scrip- 
tui-al, even though his own spiritual insight might 
not be deep enough to show their accord. One of 
the chief arguments of liis priestly accusers seems to 
have been, that Joshua commanded the sun to stand 
still, and it obeyed him ; and that if the sun had not 
'been in motion., it could not have heeii commanded 
to stand still ! Galileo replied that in the Bible 
we read that the heavens are solid, and polished 
like a mirror of brass, and that a man had only to 
raise his eyes to see that this language could not be 
interpreted literally. These and similar arguments 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 83 

and quotations from sacred writ were silenced by 
the cry of " blasphemy ! " 

Guicardini says of him, that he wanted to rec- 
oncile what was irreconcilable, and adds, " The phil- 
osopher could not listen to advice. In vain all his 
friends bade him remain quiet; told him that it 
was impossible for him to combat so many enemies, 
and to triumph over so many rivals ; that in the end 
he would only draw upon himself a thousand new 
unpleasantries. He listened to no one. He com- 
plained of being received coldly, and did not see 
that he himself tried the patience of the Cardinals 
by his importunities." 

The French Chasles, one of his most recent biog- 
raphers, writing in 1862, remarks : " A man of the 
world would not have attempted to wage war 
against calumny — like a child, to seize the lightning, 
and fight against the thunder. Galileo did not 
know that calumny is more terrible than thunder, 
the stratagems of envy more subtle than lighting — 
a thousand times more rapid, more impalpable, 
more destructive." 

After Galileo's return to Florence, having pub- 
lished a work on hydrostatics, and another upon the 
spots on the sun, he resolved to go to Rome. This 
mission was a singular one, and betrays the self-re- 
liant simplicity of his character. He was confident 



84 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

that his own eloquence, the precision of his calcu- 
lations, the authority of his name, the weight of his 
genius, would win over the incredulous, would per- 
suade the Pope, and convince all the members of 
the Sacred College. 

In 1616, he obtained letters from the Grand Duke 
to the Cardinal Orsini. Although the Cardinal re- 
ceived him warmly, the result of his mission proved 
his ignorance of the priesthood, aud the fallacy of 
his hopes. Far from making a convert of the Pope, 
Galileo was ordered to renounce the doctrine of the 
immovability of the sun, and the rotation of the 
earth ; not to teach it, and not to defend it, by w^ord 
of mouth or in writing — except, indeed, as an hy- 
pothesis, and without affirming it. 

He submitted, and left Pome. For fifteen years, 
during the reign of the two Popes who preceded 
Urban YIIL, he preserved the silence thus arbitra- 
rily imposed upon him. 

Such was his dread of being thought a heretic, 
that he said he preferred death, and induced Car- 
dinal Bellarmin to publish a* certificate of his (Gali- 
leo's) belief. 

In 1623, Cardinal Maffeo Barberini was made 
Pope Urban YIII. lie had a great affection for 
the illustrious astronomer, and Galileo revelled in the 
hope that this new Pope would be in favor of the 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 85 

doctrine of Copernicus, and that through him the 
truth might be established. He dedicated to him 
his work on the comets, and, depending upon the 
Pope's protection, wrote his celebrated dialogue on 
the systems of Ptolemy and Copernicus. 

This book, when it was published in Florence in 
1632, contained a very remarkable engraving. A 
vast sea is represented, bearing vessels ready to sail. 
Three philosophers standing on the sea-shore are 
discussing the movement of the world, and the rev- 
olutions of the spheres. One is Sagredo, the Span- 
iard. One wears the Venetian costume — it is Sal- 
viati of Yenice. These were two real personages, 
whom Galileo knew and loved, and who had openly 
accepted his doctrines. Sagredo proves by his 
philosophical arguments, and Salviati by mathe- 
matical deductions, the principles of Coperni- 
cus. The antagonist they are endeavoring to con- 
vince stands between the two philosophers. He is 
robed in Oriental draperies, and wears an Eastern 
turban. It is Simplicio, a man of past ages — the 
partisan of Ptolemy, and the advocate of ideas ren- 
dered respectable by the sanction of one's forefath- 
ers — a man who defends tradition, who declares 
that received doctrines and axioms content him, 
that appearances are all-sufficient for him, that 



86 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

the abyss into which new thinkers and discoverers 
are plunging, terrify him. 

As confident as though he had met with no rebuff, 
Galileo once more set out for Rome. His chief 
object was to obtain permission to publish this work. 
After a delay of two months, during which the 
manuscript had been abundantly pruned by Fra 
Niccolo Riccardi, and by Pere Yisconti the math- 
ematician, Galileo was allowed to return to Florence, 
to publish his book. 

But his implacable enemies seized upon this very 
work for his destruction. They represented to Pope 
Urban YIII. that it was a personal attack upon 
himself — that Simplicio was intended for a portrait, 
or rather a caricature, of His Holiness. The Pope 
was highly incensed at the bare suggestion that his 
protege dared to turn him into ridicule. Galileo 
was at once summoned to Home. At first he was 
allowed to reside wdth the Tuscan ambassador, but 
not to leave the house ; afterwards, he was impris- 
oned for several days, by order of the Inquisition. 
He was examined on the subject of his book, and 
proved that he had received permission for its pub- 
lication. It is said that he fell upon his knees be- 
fore the tribunal of Cardinals, imploring them not 
to pronounce him a heretic ; for he was a good Cath- 
olic, and would remain one in spite of the w^hole 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 87 

world. He added that, if the book was condemned 
to be burned, he himself would cast it in the flames, 
on condition that he was informed upon what ground 
such a sentence was passed. Then he read aloud 
the adjuration which had been prepared for him by 
the fi'iar Frenzuola, his bitter enemy, and the fav- 
orite of the Pope. This Frenzuola, who aspired to 
be the best military architect of that age, hated 
Galileo for not having ranked him above Michel 
Angelo, and, in spite of Galileo's denial, so thor- 
oughly persuaded the Pope that Simplicio was de- 
signed as his portrait, that he never forgave the 
astronomer. 

The sale of the book was suspended, but Galileo 
was allowed to return to Florence. 

On the 23d of September, 1632, Galileo was 
again cited to appear in Pome before the Inquisi- 
tion. In vain the ambassador ^N^iccolini showed the 
certificates of Galileo's physicians, affirming that he 
was suffering from a malady which prevented his 
travelling — in vain the cardinals Antonio Barberini 
and Ginetti appealed to the Pope in Galileo's be- 
half : the answer was that Galileo's presence could 
not be dispensed with, and that a litter would be 
prepared for his removal. 

On the 11th of January, 1633, he received a final 
summons. Tie was seventy years of age, and was 



88 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

becoming very infirm ; he dreaded the fatigues of 
the journey in his suffering and feeble condition ; 
the plague was raging in cities through which he 
was forced to pass, and he had an unconquerable 
horror of infection ; but there was no alternative, 
and he was compelled to set out on a journey which 
then occupied twenty-five days, though it is now ac- 
complished in almost as many hours. 

On reaching Rome he was lodged, as before, in 
the palace of the Tuscan ambassador, but soon 
transferred to the prisons of the Inquisition. 

His trial commenced on the 12th of April. There 
is no proof that he was put to the torture, tliough it 
has often been asserted. It is recorded that wdth 
tears he implored the mercy of his judges ; he was, 
nevertheless, condemned to the stake. The terrible 
alternative of Death, or a solemn, final recantation 
of assertions w^hich he knew to be unquestionable 
truths, was left him. The struggle in his spirit must 
have been bitter, and the injustice of his judges 
could hardly have galled him more than their per- 
verse ignorance. But life was sweet, even to the 
great philosopher, who could hardly have been sup- 
posed to fear death, and who must have felt within 
himself the consciousness that existence had been 
bestowed upon him that Science might make gigan- 
tic strides through his agency. He decided to go 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 89 

tlirongli the form of recantation. This ceremony 
required him to kneel and place one hand npon the 
Bible, and to ntter these words, which were dictated 
to him bj a priest: "I abjure, curse, and detest 
the error and heresy of the motion of the earth, and 
promise that I will never more teach, verbally or in 
writing, that the sun is the centre of the universe 
and immovable, and that the earth is not the centre 
of the universe and movable." 

It is, however, related that after the compulsory 
utterance of this gross falsehood, rising from his 
knees he muttered, with a look of fierce defiance, 
" The earth moveSj notwithstanding f " It was 
deemed wise by those who overheard this declara- 
tion to ignore it, for the time being. 

After his recantation, Galileo v/as for several 
months imprisoned in his dwelling at Rome. He 
wrote to the Pope, begging that he might be re- 
leased, or assigned some other place of confinement. 
The Pope commanded him to go to Sienna, and take 
up his abode with the Archbishop Piccolomini. The 
archbishop had a great affection for Galileo, but 
was obliged to obey the order received from Eomo, 
and to keep him under close surveillance ; he was 
not even permitted to accompany the archbishop to 
his summer villa. 

Galileo pined for Florence, and again and again 



00 . GALILEaS VILLA. 

prayed to be allowed to return to Lis villa on rlie 
bill D'Arcetri. Jnst as be bad lost all hope, be re- 
ceived tbe Pope's permission, conpled witb a com- 
mand wbicb made bini Yirtnally a prisoner witbin 
his own walls, and forbade tbe entrance of visitors. 

His two dangbters were nuns in tbe adja- 
cent Convent of San Matteo — a Franciscan con- 
vent founded in 1269, now abolisbed. He was 
devotedly attacbed to tbem, especially to tbe elder, 
and in former times visited tbem frequently. Dar- 
ing Ids trial at Home, bis favorite daugbter fell 
into a profound melancbol j, brought on by her f eai-s 
for ber father, and shortly after his return she died. 
Her illness bad only lasted six days, and Galileo was 
overwhelmed by tbe suddenness of tbe blow. Tbe 
second daughter now became her father's companion, 
and too soon his nurse ; for his health was seriously 
impaired, and bis sight failed more and more, until 
be became totally blind. 

After bis return to tbe villa be lived nine years. 

Though his captivity was irksome, he could not 
have been very rigidly guarded, for we hear of his 
being surrounded by pupils, who listened with ea- 
gerness to his instructions, and it is recorded that 
Milton visited bim. Milton, say Galileo's biogra- 
phers, gained access to liim either by eluding the 
vigilance of his jailors, or by forcing his way into 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 91 

his presence. Chasles thus sketches the memorable 
meeting : 

"Picture those two noble forms — I know of 
nothing more touching than their contrast. Galileo 
is blind ; the nun, his (laughter, the sole child left to 
him, sustains his faltering steps, while with his 
stick in his hand he tries to find his w^ay in the 
garden which he planted and loved. His finely 
shaped Italian head encircled by a crown of silvery 
locks ; the grandeur of his forehead ; the purity of 
his profile ; the classic harmony of all his features, 
testify to his race and his mental powers ; while the 
winning smile, the delicacy of coloring, the bland 
softness of his countenance, reveal the man not in- 
sensible to worldly pleasures and the charms of 
social life. 

" The young Englishman is more grave. A severe 
simplicity characterizes his appearance. His cos- 
tume is more recherche j his long gold en- brown hair 
falls in curls upon his shoulders, and harmonizes 
with his great, blue, contemplative eyes, his melan- 
choly and thoughtful smile, and the freshness of his 
complexion, Tvhich neither sensuality nor violent 
passions have robbed of its youthful brilliancy. 

"As the tv/ain seat themselves together upon the 
summit of that hill, where Milton can view the 
entire range of Florence, her marble palaces, her 



92 GALILEO'S VILLA. 

cupolas, her steeple clocks, her bridges, beneath 
"^hich glides the Arno, Trhat were his thoughts ? 
Had he any pre-vision of his future destiny, and of 
that of England? Did some inner voice tell him 
that he would one day be celebrated like Galileo, 
blind like him, like liim condemned to spend his last 
days in solitude, and like him misundei-stood or 
calumniated by his contemporaries ? And yet hap- 
pier than he is, for ]Milton was destined to leave be 
hind him the picture of a green and proud old age." 

It is not laiown to a certainty at what precise 
period these two celebrities met, but Chasles thinks 
that it was probably in 163S. 

Towards the close of Galileo's life his persecutions 
were redoubled. Every conceivable obstacle was 
thrown in the way of the circulation of his works, 
and his relations with the outer world, already so 
limited, were narrowed more and more. The In- 
Cjuisitor of Florence was ordered by the Pope to 
visit the captive from time to time, and assm*e him- 
self that he was humble and very melancholy. And 
his cruel sufierino^ were heic^htened, savs Chasles, 
'•' by the consciousness of his own moral feebleness, 
by remorse for his vain artifices and useless conces- 
sions, and the barren result of his long hmuility." 
For, he adds, '* This Italian, half a Greek, sublime 
revealer of the mvsteries of the starrv firmament : 



GALILEO'S VILLA. 93 

genius which preceded Xewton, followed Bacon, 
proclaimed Descartes — was not a hero of moral 
courage : he was an illuminated genius ! " 

Men wrote and printed what they pleased against 
Galileo ; he was forbidden to deny their assertions, 
to reply at all. And yet, during this period of 
blindness and captivity, he wrote and confided to 
the hands of a faithful friend the treatise which at 
a later period enabled Sir Isaac ]N"ewton to deduce 
the attraction of gravitation from the fall of an 
apple. 

Tenderly watched over by his daughter, Galileo 
died on the 9th of January, 1642, in his seventy- 
ninth year. ISTewton was born at the close of the 
same year. 

The celebrated Church of Santa Croce, the 
Florentine "Westminster, is graced by an imposing 
monument raised to the memory of the great and 
persecuted astronomer. When the body of Galileo 
was conveyed to this sepulchre, the forefiuger and 
thumb of one of his hands were severed from the 
corpse, to be -kept as a memento. 




CONVENT OF VALLOMBEOSA. 



King Yigtor Eivimanuel has recently made a law 
to protect the hospitable monks of Yallombrosa, or, 
rather, to prevent their compulsory hospitality from 
being too largely abused. 

The founders of the ancient monastery of Yal- 
lombrosa decreed that all travellers should be wel- 
comed, lodged, and fed, free of charge, for three 
days. The object of this charitable provision was, 
doubtless, to secure rest and shelter to weary pil- 
grims bent on holy missions. The monastery soon 
became celebrated, and yearly increasing crowds 
thronged its ever-open doors. Though no remuner- 
ation, for most bounteous cheer, can be demanded, 
a compensation, dictated by the generosity of the 
guest, is always exj^eoted — not, however, always 
received. Holiday people, from the neighboring 
towns have trespassed, in such large numbers, upon 
the liberal hospitality of the monks, tliat in the 
summer of 1865 they prayed the king to devise 
some method which would ojuard them as-ainst im- 



CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 95 

position, without A'iolating the rules of their Order. 
The king's ingenuity must have been severely taxed. 
Finally he announced that no visitor could be re- 
ceived at Yallombrosa, unless he presented himself, 
furnished with a passport. Regular tourists and 
strangers, who form that portion of the community 
from whom the monks are certain of remuneration, 
are still welcomed ; while the Italian pleasure- 
seekers of the neighborhood, who have no need of 
passports (and carry no purses), are excluded by the 
royal edict. 

This law inevitably created discontent. On sev- 
eral occasions excursionists have only been informed 
of its existence at the doors of the convent, and 
have wrathfully demanded admission, and caused 
such a disturbance, that the monks were compelled 
to summon military aid for their protection. 

Yallombrosa is a corruption of the original name, 
Valle Ambrosa — Shaded Valley. In 1060 this 
lovely locality took the name of Aqita Bella — 
Beautiful Water. 

^ Some of the most renowned poets have commem- 
orated their visits to Yallombrosa. Ariosto and 
Milton have left their footprints in the " Shaded 
Yalley " and by the " Beautiful Water." 

Aurora Leigh, looking with disappointed eyes 
upon the peaceful, cultivated landscapes of Eng- 



96 CONVENT OF VALLOMBBOSA. 

land, and contrasting tliem with the wildly pictur- 
esque scenery of her beloved Italy, says : 

"Not my chestnut woods 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs 
To the precipices. Not my headlong leaps 
Of water, that cry out for joy, or fear, 
In leaping through the palpitating pines, 
Like a white soul, tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it. Not, indeed. 
My multitudinous mountains, sitting in 
The magic circle, with the mutual touch 
Electric, panting from their fuU, deep hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, and waiting for 
Communion and commission.'" 

According to San Giovanni da Ghitigliano, who 
writes from the solitary cell he had made for him- 
self at Yallombrosa, towards the close of the fourth 
century, the " Shaded Yalley " was, at that period, 
a wild forest, infested by noxious serpents and 
beasts of prey. It has now bloomed into an Eden. 

Yallombrosa is twenty English miles from Flor- 
ence. After reaching the village of Pelago, which 
lies four or five miles below the monastery, the 
rest of the journey must be made on foot, m the 
saddle, or in a sort of rude wicker basket, placed on 
sledges, and drawn by oxen. Ladies are usually 
consigned to this extraordinary conveyance, and 
learn, to their amazement, what an amonnf of jolting 
and bouncing feminine humanity can endure un- 
fractured. 

The road follows the course of the mountain tor- 



CONVENT OF YALLOMBROSA. 97 

rent, but has no particular interest until it reaches 
a grove of superb pine-trees, whose sombre branches 
meet in irregular arches overhead. Further on, the 
traveller is suddenly charmed by what appears to be 
a noble English park — verdant lawns and fertile 
meadows, pasture grounds, alive with herds of cat- 
tle, small lakes, used as trout preserves, and the 
whole girdled in by magnificent forests of chestnut, 
beech, and oak. The herbage is remarkable for its 
unfolding verdure, and even in winter retains the 
vernal freshness imparted by the moisture of the 
mountain streams. 

The convent is of massive structure, and forms a 
quadrangle, with vast paved courts and high towers. 
It covers as much ground as a small village. In 
times of war the gates are closed, and the hospit- 
able monastery is transformed into a redoubtable 
fortress. 

The refectory accommodates two hundred per- 
sons. The extensive library contains many valuable 
manuscripts and rare volumes. The chapels and 
spacious halls are embellished by fine paintings. 

The front windows of the convent command the 
whole valley of the Arno, to Florence — the hills 
above Lucca and the Carrara mountains rising 
grandly in the distance. 

Male visitors only are received into the convent. 
5 



98 CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 

About a hundred yards from its principal entrance 
stands a rude, dilapidated Albergo. This is styled 
the Foresteria^ and here the gentler sex are lodged. 
A monk, who is selected for this especial duty, su- 
perintends their entertainment. The holy Brother 
who holds the office at this moment is remarkably 
handsome and conversable, and not particularly^ 
monastic in his deportment ; but he could not occu- 
py so agreeable a position until his fitness and reli- 
ability had been well tested. 

The doors of the convent are every morning sur- 
rounded by a crowd of needy peasants, women and 
children, who come to receive their breakfast from 
the charitable hands of the monks. 

Half way up the steep declivity which rises in 
the rear of the monastery, upon a projecting cliff, 
stands a small white building, with an untended 
and weed-grown garden, oddly styled the Para- 
disino. This " little Paradise " is used as a herm- 
itage by the most holy of the monks ; and their soli- 
tary meditations not unfrequently induce the state 
of semi-trance called ecstasy. 

The Monastery of Yallombrogk was founded .in 
the eleventh century, by Giovanni Gualberto. He 
was the son of the Lord Petroio, in Yal-di-pesa. 
His family was one of the noblest, the richest, the 



CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 99 

most powerful in Florence. His history is very 
remarkable. 

At eighteen years of age he was a gay cavalier, 
wholly absorbed in worldly and sensual pleasures. 
At this period his beloved brother Hubert was killed 
in a quarrel by a young nobleman. " A life for a 
life " was the cruel creed of the cavaliers of those 
days. Not alone Giovanni's rage and grief, but his 
code of honor, impelled him to vengeance, and he 
resolved to take the life of the assassin. 

One Good-Friday morning he went forth, clad in 
armor, and followed by his retainers, to attend mass 
at San Miniato al Monte. Passing through the 
narrow road that leads to the Basilica of San Min- 
iato, he unexpectedly encountered the murderer 
of his brother 1 The latter was unarmed and alone. 
The adversaries stood face to face. The fiery Gio- 
vanni drew his sword, and at this signal the swords 
of his followei-s flashed from their scabbards. Gio- 
vanni was in the act of rushing upon his foe, when 
the culprit threw himself at the avenger's feet, ex- 
tended his arms in the form of a cross, and, in the 
name of that merciful Saviour who, upon the day 
which they were both celebrating, died upon the cross, 
and pardoned sinners in dying, supplicated Giovanni 
to spare his live and pardon his crime. Giovanni 
paused — in his soul there was a fierce, brief strug- 



100 coy VEST OF VALLOMBBOSA. 

gle between inercv and revenge ; but compassion 
prevailed. "With a grand impnlse of pardoning 
generc>sity, he sheathed his sword, stretched out his 
arms, and said, " Thou hast slain my brother : be 
thou a brother to me, in his stead, if thou canst ! *' 

Filled with contrition, his adversary flung him- 
self, weeping, into Giovanni's arms, bewailing his 
deed of blood, and again and again declaring his 
unworthiness to receive that forgiveness which had 
been so nobly and promptly granted. 

This incident is commemorated by a fresco, 
placed in a tabernacle on the wall, by the roadside, 
upon the very spot where it occurred. 

Giovanni, after embracing and comforting his 
foe, led him to the Ghurch of San ^Tiniato^ whither 
he was bending his steps. The legend says that 
when the reconciled cavaliers knelt before the 
crucifix, the lips of the Saviour smiled upon Giov- 
anni, and the head bowed in approbation, 

Giovanni was so much overcome by this miracu- 
lous manifestation, that he forthwith renounced the 
world and joiaed the Fraternity of San Miniato. 
Here he led so exemplary a life, that when the 
Ab1x>t died the monks pro]X)sed, although he was 
only twenty-three years of age, to elect him as their 
head ; but he declined the distinction, upon the plea 
of liis youth. 



CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. 101 

At a later period lie retired to tlie solitude of 
Vallombrosa, and there built himself a small cell 
beside those of the two hermit monks who had 
made that wild forest their abode. This trio 
formed the nucleus from which sprang the Holy 
Order of Vallombrosa. 

The miraculous token vouchsafed Giovanni be- 
came widely known, and crowds flocked to see him, 
to receive his pious counsels and his blessing. 
Some even assumed his rude garb, and bore him 
company. 

Emperors and nobles poured in their treasures, to 
establish a community which boasted a founder so 
saintlike. The monastery became very wealthy 
through these endowments. The Countess Matilda 
was one of the most lavish in her benefactions. 

Victor the Second conferred on San Giovanni 
Gualberto the title of Abbot General of the Order. 
Tie was then seventy-two years of age, but his hu- 
mility prevented his ever assuming the robes of his 
office. He waged uncompromising war against the 
corruptions of the age, and succeeded in abolishing 
many abuses. 

He died in 1073, eighty-eight years of age, after 
having passed seventy years in religious seclusion. 

The present extensive buildings of the monastery- 
were erected in 1637. 



102 C02^^VENT OF VALL02IBR0SA. 

For a long period the monks of Yallombrosa 
strove in vain to obtain possession of the crucifix 
from which Giovanni affirmed that the Saviour had 
bowed his head, in token of heavenly approbation. 
The monks of San Miniato clamored against this 
demand of the brethren of Yallombrosa. This 
crucifix had become one of the most valuable pos- 
sessions of San Miniato, and drew crowds to the 
church. Finally, Cosimo III., over whom the 
monks of Yallombrosa possessed great influence, 
prevailed upon the Fraternity of San Miniato to 
consent to the temporarj^ removal of the cross to 
the Eighth Chapel of the Church of Santa Trinita, 
and to wait until the proper authorities could decide 
to which fraternity it ought to belong. Xo satisfac- 
tory decision was ever given, for the crucifix, to 
this day, remains at Santa Trinita. 

Tradition declares that Giovanni Gualberto per- 
foraied numerous miracles, and there is a famous 
well, near the sacristy of the Church of San Giov- 
anni, in the Piazza Santa Trinita^ the waters of 
which, having been blessed by the relics of this 
saint, are said to have effected wonderful cures 
when a malignant fever ravaged Florence in 1580. 

In the Fifteenth Chapel of this Church there is 
a painting by Francisco Corsi, representing San 



CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA, 103 

Giovaimi Gnalberto in the act of pardoning the 
murderer of his brother. 

Banquets are given in the Monastery of Yallom- 
brosa npon certain festivals, and at the same time 
a sort of rural fair is held. The peasants assemble 
on the green sward before the convent, and sing 
improvised verses to popular airs. On the Festa of 
the Assunta the monks present several poor young 
girls, whose blameless conduct has entitled them 
to reward, with a small dowry, which enables them 
to marry. 

The celebrated Monastery of Camaldoli is about 
ten miles distant from Yallombrosa. It is situated 
on a rocky slope of the Apennines; the adjacent 
mountains are bleak and barren; but the region 
about Camaldoli is an oasis of fertile and pictur- 
esque loveliness. 

The brethren of Camaldoli are a branch of the 
great Carthusian Order, and own a vast and produc- 
tive territory — well-stocked dairy farms, extensive 
meadows, highly cultivated fields, and forests which 
produce, it is said, the finest timber in the world. 

There is a sort of penal branch attached to this 
Institution, called the Sagro Eremo, or Holy Her- 
initage ! This convent is located amid pine forests^ 
on the very topmost height of the Apennines. From 
this altitude both the Adriatic and Mediterranean 



104 CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. 

seas are visible. The climate is one endless winter. 
The church is encompassed by small, rude, isolated 
huts, and their inmates are essentially hermits. 
The discipline is very rigid. The monks hold no 
communion with each other ; speech is forbidden ! 
they have no life in common. His scanty allowance 
of bread and vegetables is passed to each monk 
through a trap-door, which opens from the wall into 
his -cell. Twice only, in the year, animal food is 
supplied. The soimd of the human voice is never 
heard, except in religious exercises in the chapel. 
The monks are summoned to prayers seven times in 
every twenty-four hours. 

Two luxuries alone are permitted them, but it 
is said they rarely avail themselves of either. One 
is access to a large library of historical and theolog- 
ical v/orks, from w^hich they are allowed to select 
books ; the other is a small garden, attached to 
each hut, which they are at liberty to cultivate. 
But the books remain unopened, and weeds possess 
the neglected earth, which might be embellished by 
hardy flowers. 

Tiie community of the Holy Hermitage is com 
posed of three classes of monks — novices, who must 
prove their fitness for the monastic life by two 
years' residence at the Sagro Eremo, before they 
are permitted to take tjieir place in the more agree- 



CONVENT OF VALL0MBR08A. 105 

able mouastery of Camaldoli ; monks, who are 
sent to tlie Eremo from Camaldoli, for a certain 
period, as a punishment for the transgression of 
some of the rules of their Order; and men who 
come voluntarily to this place of penance, hoping 
to atone for great crimes, or to deserve great future 
happiness, by the joyless rigor of their lives upon 
earth. 

It is in the chapel alone that the members of the 
community meet, and there the visitor may see one 
of their commonest penances. It consists in pros- 
tration at the foot of the alter, the arms extended to 
form the figure of a cross, and the forehead struck 
violently against the marble steps. This act is often 
performed several times by the same penitent dur- 
ing a single service. 

There are two or three high festivals in the yea]*, 
upon which the monks are permitted to converse 
and eat together, and some slight addition is made 
to their bread and vegetables ; but there are monks 
who never avail themselves of this indulgence — 
who never change their diet, and whose voices have 
never been heard in those walls, except in the offices 
of the choir. This rio^id fastina: and meditation is 
said to produce the most seraphic ^asions, the 
records of which are preserved in the archives of 
the Sagro Eremo. 



106 CONVENT OF VALLOMBROSA. 

I^Tot to so ascetic an Order belonged the jolly 
monks who invented the game by us known as that 
of " Domino.^'' M. Amedeo de Ponthien gives ns 
its origin. He says that in the sixth century, in a 
Convent of Benedictine Brothers, two monks, Fra 
Oremo and Fra Giacomo, were condemned to do 
penance in the same cell. To wile away the tedions 
honrs, they contrived a game, to be played with 
small square stones, upon which they had ingen- 
iously made certain black marks, representing vari- 
ous combinations. But, as they were aware that 
the Abbot was in the habit of making his round, at 
stated times, in the corridor of the cells, they hit 
upon the plan of chanting at short intervals, in a 
loud voice, " Dixit, Dcnninus Domino^'' to make 
the Abbot believe that they were engaged in their 
orisons. This game, we are told, was the game 
of Domino^) which took its name from the last, 
and upon which they paused to play. 




td 







FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 



Among tlie most remarkable and the most pic- 
turesque features of Florence are its old historic 
bridges, arching themselves over the Arno, as it 
noiselessly steals through the city — bridges that 
have mtnessed many memorable scenes, and have 
been again and again swept away, when the moun- 
tain torrents swelled the quiet-looking stream to 
overflowing, and again and again rebuilt, with ever- 
increasing strength and beauty. 

The bridge farthest to the east is called the 
Ponte alle Grazie^ or di Rubaconte. This last 
name it received in honor of the Milanese Podestd 
Rubaconte^ who laid the foundation stone, and to 
whom the city of Florence was in various ways in- 
debted. The first appellation it derives from a lit- 
tle chapel at the foot of the bridge, dedicated to 
Santa Maria delle Grazie. 

The bridge was built by Lapo, father of the cele- 
brated Arnolf o. 

It was at the foot of this bridge, that in 12Y3 the two 
(107) 



108 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 

discordant factions styled Ghihellines and Guelphs, 
tlirough the mediation of Gregory X., met, and 
with great solemnity concluded a peace, which was 
to last until death. 

Pope Gregory X., in company with the French 
King, Charles, and with Baldwin of Flanders, 
chanced to pass through Florence, on their way 
from Eome to Lyons, where they were to hold a 
council. They were highly delighted with the fair 
city of Florence, and resolved to pass the summer 
there. The Pope greatly lamented the bitter feud 
which existed between the proud Ghihellines and 
the fiery Guelplis, and noticed the constant injuries 
which the beautiful city sustained through the strife. 
(The Ghihellines are the party in favor of the Em- 
pire as opposed to the Church, and the Guelphs in 
favor of the Church as opposed to the Empire.) 
Pope Gregory, not questioning his power, made up 
his mind to put a sudden end to these unseemly dis- 
sensions. The Ghibelline leaders were then in 
exile, and he ordered that they should return, and 
make peace with the Guelphs. The Pontiff had a 
huge scaffolding of wood erected at the foot of the 
Ponte alle Grazie, and here, on the second day of 
July, 1273, all the dignitaries were seated, witli the 
Pope in the centre. The Florentine people congre- 
gated in the dry bed of the Arno. The Pope sol 



FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 109 

emnly addressed the assembled multitude, and de- 
creed that the Ghibellines and the Guelphs should 
become fi-iends forevermore, under pain of excom- 
munication to whoever should not obey the order. 
He made the Syndics of each party, who were doubt- 
less more inclined to tear each other to pieces than 
to embrace, publicly kiss one another on the mouth, 
and give bail and hostages. 

The ceremony was performed with all due sol- 
emnity; but the forevermore during which the 
peace thus forcibly concluded was to last, represent- 
ed a period of four days ! After this brief respite 
the feud broke out with fresh fury, and raged more 
violently than ever. 

The incensed Pope retired immediately from 
Florence, and kept his word by excommunicating 
the whole city. Under this interdict Florence re- 
mained, with the exception of a short interval, for 
three years. The only removal of the excommuni- 
cation was owing to a somewhat singular circum- 
stance. The Pope, in returning from Lyons to 
Pome, intended to cross the Arno above the city of 
Florence, but the river was so much swollen that 
the passage of a ferry-boat was impossible. The 
Pope could not place his holy foot in a city that 
was excommunicated — for his presence was sup- 
posed to be synonymous with blessings. There was 



110 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 

no alternative but to take off tlie interdict before 
lie entered the gates. As he traversed the streets 
he dispensed his blessings according to established 
custom, but when he passed out of the opposite gate 
he immediately tooh hach all the hlessings, so pro- 
fusely showered, and fulminated the excommunica- 
tion anew. 

In one of the small houses, standing on a pier of 
the bridge, the poet Menzini was born, and in anoth- 
er the Franciscan monk, Beato Tommaso dei Bellaci. 

The Ponte Yecchio (or jewellers' bridge, as it is 
often called) is lined by shops of jewellers, gold- 
smiths, and other workers in metal. This bridge is 
said to be built on Etruscan piers. It was carried 
away by a flood in 1177 — rebuilt, and again swept 
away in 1333. It was rebuilt by Taddeo Gaddi in 
1335. An inscription beneath one of the arches 
commemorates the fact. The officers of the Torre, 
or Towers, presided at its reconstruction, and the 
arms of the Torre, sculptured under the Loggia, or 
open part of the bridge, are mingled with those of 
the Eepublic. 

Upon this bridge, in 1420, was signed the treaty 
of peace between Pope Martin Y., and Fortebraccio, 
Lord of Pisa. 

It was this Pope Martin who, on the year pre- 
vious, had evinced his gratitude to the city of Flor- 



FLORENTINE BRIDGES. Ill 

ence for its liospitality, by presenting the Signoria 
with a golden E-ose — a very signal honor. The pres- 
entation of a Hose of gold upon Easter Sunday, by 
the Eoman Pontiff, to a prince or potentate who 
has won his favor, is a very ancient custom. Cambri 
describes the Hose as " a golden bough, with leaves 
of gold, very fine, and on it nine roses, and one bud 
above the nine ; and inside there was musk, and 
myrrh, and balsam." 

Upon Easter Sunday, second of April, 1419, when 
Pope Martin presented Florence with his Pose, the 
Gonf aloniere _ (Mayor), Bernardo di Costello, was 
prevented by a serious illness from receiving the 
much-prized offering. Taddeo Gherardini, chairman 
of the Signoria, for that day occupied Bernardds 
place; and fi'om that time his family was called 
Gherardini della Posa. After the Pope had placed 
the Pose in the hands of Messer Taddeo Gherardini, 
the Pontiff came out on the Piazza Santa Maria 
Novella with thirteen cardinals, and the members 
of the Signoria. They all, the Pope excepted, 
mounted their horses, and eleven cardinals led the 
way; then came Messer Taddeo, with his Pose; 
two cardinals followed him, and the Signoria closed 
the procession ; the horsemen passed through all 
the principal streets, and then returned to the Pal- 
azzo Yecchio. The Pose was ceremoniously placed 



112 FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 

in the chapel of the palace, where it remains to the 
present day. 

In one of the honses npon the Yonte Vecchio, the 
poet Ariosto was entertained, for six months, by 
Cavaliere Kiccolo Yespncci, on the occasion of the 
feast of St. John and the election of Leo X. ; and 
here the poet first saw Alessandra Bennucci^ widow 
of Tito Strozzi, and fell in love with her. The cor- 
respondence between this lady and the poet lasted 
uninterrupted until her death in 1532, and slie ap- 
pears to have reciprocated his attachment. 

Above the shops w^hich line the bridge w^as a gal- 
lery ingeniously uniting Palazzct Pitti to the gal- 
leria degli Uffizi, and the Palazzo Yecchio, built by 
Cosimo I. 

It was at the foot of this bridge that the gallant 
young bridegroom, Buondelmonte^ coming from his 
nuptials, was waylaid by the outraged relatives of a 
fair lady he had deserted. lie was slain at the base 
of the statue of Mars. This statue was afterwards 
removed from its place near the bridge, on account, 
it is said, of the sad associations to which it was for- 
ever linked. 

The Ponte a Santa Trinitd is by far the most 
beautiful of tlie bridges. The former bridges, w^hich 
occupied the site of the present one, have frequently 
been swept away. The last bridge was constructed 



FLOBENTINE BRIDGES. 113 

by Bartoloinmeo Ammanati, architect to the Grand 
Dnke, Cosimo I. It was finished in 1569. From 
its incomparable lightness and elegance, it was 
thought too fragile to sustain great weights ; and 
lieaTily laden wagons were prohibited by the author- 
ities from crossing. Ammanati, highly indignant 
at being supposed so unskilful as to build a bridge 
which was insecure, ordered an immense car to be 
filled with stones. The car was so ponderous, that it 
could with difficulty be drawn by six strong horses. 
Upon these stones the architect himself mounted, and 
was drawn to the centre of the bridge. Here he 
remained for several hours, discoursing with the peo- 
ple from his throne of stones, and practically con- 
vincing the Florentines of their error, and of the in- 
justice they had done him. Yet one hundred and 
fifty years passed, ere carriages were allowed by 
the Grand Duke to pass over it. 

An inscription cut in the stone of this bridge re- 
cords the name of a brave Frenchman, who, when 
the Arno was swollen, and rushing onward with a 
fierce current, threw himself into the river to save 
a poor Florentine artisan, and though the unfor- 
tunate man's leg was broken, rescued him, at the 
imminent risk of his own life, and restored him to 
his family. 

The angles of the bridge are adorned by statues 



114 FLOBEJ^TINE BEIDGES. 

of tlie four seasons. The one representing winter, 
bj Taddeo Landini^ is considered the iinest. 

The Ponte alia Carrajd is said to have been the 
second that was built, and it was called Nuovo 
Ponte^ in contradistinction to the Ponte Yecchio. 
The architect was Lapo. It was first erected in 
1218, and swept away by a flood in 1269. 

A most appalling catastrophe imparts great inter- 
est to this bridge. It was an ancient custom in 
Florence to celebrate the first weeks in May by' 
superb pageants. This Ponto alia Carrajd was the 
favorite bridge for the exhibition of spectacles to the 
people. The different parties and companies of 
Florence vied with each other to gain the j)alm for 
grandeur and originality of display. 

In the year 1304, the company San Frcdiano re- 
solved to offer a magnificent May-day fete to the 
Cardinal J^iccolo da Prato^ who was then visiting 
Florence. T. A. TroUope, in his " Commonwealth of 
Florence," quaintly remarks that they wished to in- 
vent 2ifetG "which should be magnificent, and at the 
same time esjpecially ada.j?ted to the sacred character 
of the guest whom they wished to lionor. So it was 
determined to regale the dignified Dominican Car- 
dinal with a representation of Ilell, and the tor- 
ments of the damned, depicted to the llfe^ 

The company sent around the city a band of 



FLORENTINE BBIDGE8. 115 

musicians and a lierald, to announce that whoever 
wanted to have news of the other world, must come 
to the Ponte alia Carrajd. The bridge was at that 
time constructed of wood. The painter Buffal'- 
macco directed the spectacle. A quantity of artifi- 
cial fire, of various colors,' was employed to lend 
splendor and reality to the performance. The infer- 
nal regions were represented upon the Arno. The 
river was covered with rafts and barges, peopled 
with demons, rushing about, amidst flames, groan- 
ing, shrieking, yelling, and inflicting torment upon 
"naked souls;" these "naked souls" of the con- 
demned being made manifest by " naked bodies." 
We quote Trollope's description of what ensued : 
" The scene was at its height, and the interest and 
satisfaction of the beholders proportionably intense, 
when all at once the bridge, burthened beyond its 
strength by the vast crowd of spectators, fell with 
a crash into the hell beneath, overwhelming the 
devils and their victims and the crowd of gazers in 
one common ruin, of an indescribable mass of inex- 
tricable confusion ! What with the fall, and the in- 
juries by the timbers of the ruined bridge, and drown- 
ing in the water, and crushing one another, few 
either of the actors or spectators of the scene escaped 
with their lives." 

It is said that there was hardly a family in Flor- 



116 FLOEESTINE BBIDGES. 

ence which did not lose a relative by this catas- 
trophe. The historian Yillani coolly observes that 
" they saio hell ranch nearer than they intended^ 

The painter Bnffalmacco happily escaped. He 
had left the bridore a few moments before the acci- 
dent, to procure something needful to the show. 

It is related that Dante was present at this specta- 
cle, and that he there first conceited his idea of the 
Inferno. 

Xot far from the Ponte alia Car raj a stands the 
house where Amerigo Vespucci was born. A tablet 
over the front of the dwelling bears an inscription 
recording the fact. 

In 1304: the Ponte alia Carrajd was first built 
throuo:hout with stone. In 1333 it was as^ain en- 
tirelv destroyed by the ovei-flow of the Amo. It was 
then rebuilt by the architect Fra Giovanni di Campi 
in its present form, except that Ammanati, in 1557, 
rebuilt two of the arches, which had been carried 
away. 

Every year, on the festival of San Giovanni, pat- 
ron saint of Florence, the most splendid fireworks 
are exhibited fi-om this bridge, and the Arno is cov- 
ered with barges containius^ bands of music. The 
fii-eworks which we witnessed there in 1S65 were 
superb beyond description ; they were literally pic- 
tures painted in flashes of colored fire. 



FLORENTINE BRIDGES. 117 

Florence has now added to her old historic bridges 
two modern suspension bridges, the Ponte San Fer- 
nando and the Ponte San Leopoldo. They were 
constructed by a French engineer, and completed in 
1837, but the furious little Arno proved too strong 
to be resisted by one of them. The bridge above 
the Ponte alle Grazie was swept away in November, 
1844, and rebuilt in 1853. 

As we stand upon any one of these bridges, and 
watch the slender stream, gliding through the street, 
and winding through richl}^ green valleys, and we 
lift up our eyes to palaces, towers, and churches 
singularly imposing in their individuality, and then 
to San Miniato, to Fiesole, and Bellosguardo, to the 
background formed by the stately Yallombrosan 
hills and the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains, 
we are forced to admit that it is the position of those 
"bridges, and the landscape, replete with rare and 
varied loveliness which they command, that redeems 
the narrow little Arno from insignificance, and im- 
parts to it the pictorial aspect for which it is cele- 
brated. 



DANTE. 



July 3, 1865. 

Is Dante to be allowed to rest at last ? Are we 
to have any rest from Dante? Italy lias been 
Dante mad for a couple of months. Dante's glorifi- 
cation has been the signal for the most brilliant 
extravagance and superb festivity. After a lapse 
of six centuries, a frantic desire to pay homage to 
their great poet has suddenly stirred the pulses of 
the Italian people into jubilant enthusiasm. 

We do not venture upon the suggestion on this 
side of the ocean, but w^e are almost brave enough 
to whisper to our friends on the other, that although 
it is just possible a genuine and intense appreciation 
of the writings and character and political services 
of Dante may have made the nation seize with such 
wild avidity -upon the opportunity to do him honor, 
it is even more probable that the Italian holiday- 
loving heart was simply overjoyed to snatch at any 
excuse for a series of fetes. 

The three days' solemnities at Ravenna have just 

(118) 



DANTR ♦ 119 

terminated. Dante's recovered bones have been 
finally sepulchred with impressive pomp and cere- 
mony. Their discovery, made a little more than a 
month ago, is somewhat singular. 

The exiled Dante died at Ravenna, September 
14th, 1321. Hi§ unquiet bones seem to have passed 
through extraordinary vicissitudes. A few years 
after Dante's death, when Cardinal Bertrando del 
Pogetto, moved by pious wrath, determined that 
the poet's remains should be burned as those of a 
heretic, they were stolen by some Franciscan friars. 
Tradition says they were restored to their original 
resting-place when the danger was over. In 1519 the 
Florentines supplicated Pope Leo X. to have the 
poet's venerated bones brought to Florence, Dante's 
birth-place, as Michael Angelo had offered to sculp- 
ture a sepulchre worthy to be their last receptacle. 
The people of Havenna cried out against this demand, 
and the bones once more mysteriously disappeared. 
It is not definitely stated when or how they were re- 
stored, but since they were destined to vanish again, 
they must have been replaced. 'Wlien Cardinal 
Corsi, in 1692, attempted to repair the chapel of 
Dante, the friars suspected that his object was to 
obtain possession of these valued relics, and once 
more they became invisible. Their repository was 
not again discovered until the 27th of May, 1865 — 



120 • DANTE, 

just after the great Dante festival celebrated In 
Florence. 

The municipality of Eavenna having approved 
of the programme for that festival, and wishing to 
do further lionor to the poet, ordered that the chapel 
of Dante should be opened and repaired. The 
masons employed on the work found embedded in a 
wall, from which they had removed a few stones to 
fasten a pipe, a badly made fir wood box. It was 
opened by them. An inscription within testified 
that the bones it contained were those of Dante, 
placed there by Friar Antonio Santi, 18th of Octo- 
ber, 1677. The archives of the Franciscan College 
were examined, and a record of this act, made by 
Friar Antonio Santi, was found. 

Here was a glorious' occasion for another ^'festa^'^ 
and the 24th, 25th, and 26th of June were set apart 
for Dante's final obsequies. Military salutes, proces- 
sions, bands of music, orations, and banquetings 
formed part of the ceremony. 

The bones were carried to the temple of Braccia- 
forte, upon a white satin cushion, in a crystal urn 
covered with a white veil. "When the veil was lifted, 
the Syndic of Ravenna made a touching address, 
and then placed a wreath upon the urn. A second 
wreath was offered by the Syndic of Florence. No 
priests were permitted to officiate. Their ire was 



DANTE. 121 

very naturally excited, and they pronounced the 
whole proceeding sacrilegious. 

The three days' national Dante festival in com- 
memoration of the six hundredth anniversary of his 
birth, took place in Florence on the 14:th, 15th, and 
16th of May, 1865, and has never, it is said, been 
surpassed in magnificence — at least in Italy. 

It will seem strange to our American readers 
that Sunday was the day upon which the festival 
commenced, but that sacred day is usually chosen 
by Italians as the fittest for a jubilee. 

A colossal statue of Diante was to be inaugurated 
on the Piazza Santa Croce. The piazza was richly 
adorned with decorative paintings, illustrative of in- 
cidents in the life of the poet, garlands. of laurel and 
flowers, trophies, banners, emblematical devices, and 
rich hangings. Indeed, the whole city was hung 
with flags, and upon those houses in which great ce- 
lebrities have lived, or died, or were born, their 
names were inscribed, surrounded with garlands 
and trophies. 

The procession was formed in the Piazza Santo 
Spirito at ten o'clock in the morning. Men and 
women marched bareheaded in the broad sunshine. 
Conspicuous among the most renowned moved the 
great Pistori, the most distinguished actress of 
Italy. She was arrayed in a flowing robe of gold 
6 



122 BANTE, 

colored silk, which swept the streets, and wore a 
crown of gold upon her stately head, with a long, 
rich white A'eil. Her noble carriage, her graceful, 
regal gait, and her handsome features, won general 
admiration. Salvini and Eossi, the two greatest of 
Italian actors, walked by her side. A superb ban- 
ner, representative of the dramatic art, of which 
they each* held a ribbon, was borne before them. 

When the procession had assembled in the Piazza 
Santa Croce, the solemn bell of the Palazza Yecchio 
sounded ; then followed superb music by the band 
of the J^ational Guard. King Victor Emmanuel 
gave the signal for the unveiling of Pazzi's statue 
of Dante, and an oration was pronounced. 

The statue is severely criticised on the one hand 
and highly praised on the other ; but it is sufficient 
that Pazzi, the sculptor, is a native of Pavenna for 
him to excite the jealousy of the Florentines. It is 
said he has made Dante frowning upon ungrate- 
ful Florence. The King knighted Pazzi for his 
work. 

In the evening, the whole city was illuminated 
with a dazzling brilliancy, of which no language can 
give an adeqnate conception. A triple row of lights 
gleamed along the whole length of the Arno, and 
reflected a blaze in the water. The bridges, the 
Pitti Palace, the Palazzo Yecchio, the Duomo, 



DANTE. 123 

Baptistry, Giotto's Campanila, were literally, in the 
language of Aurora Leigh, 

"Dra\vn in fire." 

All Florence, from its princes and potentates down 
to the lowest contadiiii, poured into the streets. 
The order and quiet preserved were wonderful. 
Great as was the crowd, there was no jostling, no 
pushing, no rudeness, no loud talking ; the hum of 
low voices and the sound of music alone broke the 
stillness. The finest band and choir were to be 
heard in the Piazza Santa Croce. 

Upon the second day, the celebration was con- 
tinued in the Academy of Fine Arts. Several 
original poems on Dante were delivered, and Ristori 
read, with great effect, Victor Hugo's letter to the 
Mayor of Florence. A Dante concert was given in 
the evening at the Pagliano Theatre. 

On the third and last day, the festivity began mth 
a distribution of prizes to women of good conduct, 
on the Piazza Santa Croce. 

During the day there was a festa for the popu- 
lace, and mock tournament on the Cascine, and a 
boat-race on the Arno. 

At night a ball for the people in the open air, 
under the Uffizi. 

TiiQ festa closed with the most gorgeous tahleaux 
vivanteSy accompanied by music and recitation, at 



1-24: DAXTE. 

• 

the Pagliano theatre. The magnificeiice and artistic 
beauty of these tableaux were imrivalled- Thev 
represented scenes from the vrorks of Dante — 
chiefly from liis Divina Corrtedia. The Tnfenio, 
Tvdth all its horrors and tortnres, as Dante has fan- 
tastically described them, was illustrated by a series 
of pictures exhibited by a fiery red, electric light. 
Purgatory, with its milder suffering, was shown by 
a cold blue, electric light. But the electric light 
phed a srolden blaze of ^lorv when Heaven, with 
Dante led by Beatrice, amidst groups of angels and 
apostles, with the blue vault and bright stars, and 
fleecy clouds above them, were revealed. 

The tableau of Francesca di Bimini was preceded 
by a recitation, powerfully given, by the great 
Bistori, Declamations by Salvini and Bossi pre- 
ceded several of the tableaux. 

It was a great source of pride and congratulation 
by the American visitors in Florence, that an exqui- 
site translation of the Divina Comedia, by our own 
Longfellow, richly bound, was sent by the poet him- 
self, through the Minister, Air. Marsh, to the 
Mayor. 

It is also gratifying to remember, that the full- 
length portrait of Dante, by Giotto, in the chapel of 
the palace of the Podesta, which, on an occasion of 
this kind, when the city swarmed with strangers. 



DANTE. ' 125 

was an object of especial interest, miglit have still 
remained hidden by the coat of whitewash which 
had concealed it for generations, but for the energy 
of our countryman, Mr. R. II. Yv^ilde, assisted by a 
f ew^ English and American gentlemen. The white- 
wash was, in some places, an inch thick, and it is 
not definitely known how long the portrait had 
worn this unseemly white veil. 

The day before the festival instituted by the 
authorities commenced, it may be said to have been 
inaugurated at the " English Dramatic Drawing 
Hoom," by an admirable lecture delivered by Mr. 
Montgomery Stuart, correspondent of the London 
Morning Post. 

The national ovation has caused Italy, we might 
almost say Europe, to be flooded with pamphlets, 
poems, sonnets, discourses, and books on Dante, his 
life and times. Certainly no poet ever won a more 
bounteous tribute of venerating admiration. We 
quote an illustrative passage from a highly interest- 
ing volume written by a Greek lady, noted for her 
beauty and talents, Madame Albana Mignaty. She 
says : " "When we have granted to Dante his full 
share of wealaiess, passion, inconsistency, and even 
bitterness, enough remains of heroic strength, and 
of nnqnenchable ardor in the pursuit of virtue, to 
ensure Dante, our Tuscan father, the admiration of 



126 DANTE. 

all ages, as tlie Prince of Christian Poets, and the 
foremost of all those who have sought to guide man- 
kind through suffering and through faith to their 
eternal home." 

Having given this quotation, we are bound to con- 
fess that we do belong to the number of Dante's 
worshippers. Wliile we admit that he has claims 
to high rank as a poet ; that he gave to Italy her 
language ; that he united wonderful imagination to 
vast scientific knowledge and political wisdom; 
that, although he was a dreamer, he showed an 
acquaintance with scientific {acts then supposed 
to be unknown, and which seemed prophecies as 
they were recorded by his pen ; and while our deep- 
est sympathy is excited by his misfortunes, and the 
harsh inwatitude which he received at the hands of 
those whom he had so largely benefited ; while we 
grieve over his sad exile, his lonely wanderings — 
his poverty, which, he declares, caused him almost 
to live on alms ; while we are moved by his yearn- 
ings for his native city, and his sad death at 
Havenna — in short, while we admit his mighty 
genius and his heavy sorrows, we cannot feel that 
his character commands that amount of veneration 
which it so lavishly receives. lie is called the most 
Christian of poets, the most high-minded and noble, 
and large-hearted of men, etc., etc. But this Chris- 



DANTE. 127 

tiaii poet cherished inveterate and deadly hatreds, 
wholly inconsistent with the teachings of Christian- 
ity, incompatible with the character of a Christian. 
And when he describes the Inferno, the Christian 
poet takes care to give all of his enemies a conspicu- 
ous place there, and to depict their tortures with 
savage triumph. 

His egotism has scarcely a parallel in biography. 
lie himself, his emotions, his aspirations, his adven- 
tures, his self-laudation, are constantly the themes 
of his muse. 

He is called the trite lover Poet, who has deified 
the passion of love in the style of his Beatrice. But 
what is the matter-of-fact history of that same 
passion ? He had very little beyond a howing 
acquaintance with his idolized Beatrice ; indeed, 
her ceasing to salute him at one time affords the 
opportunity for a frantic burst of poetic agony. 

He was nine years old when he first met Beatrice. 
She had just entered her ninth year. During the 
next nine years he only saw her by chance glimpses. 
In his "Yita J^uova" he thus describes their first 
meeting : '' Nine times from the hour of my birth 
had the heaven of light returned, as it were, to the 
same point in the orbit, when the glorious lady of 
my thoughts appeared for the first time before my 
eyes. By many she was called Beatrice, by some 



128 DANTE. 

she was known by another name. She was then of 
such an age that the starry heavens had mo\'ed the 
twelfth part of a degree towards the earth during 
her life time, so that she appeared to me about the 
begiiming of her ninth year, and I saw her about 
the end of my ninth year. She appeared to me in 
a dress of noble color, a subdued and becoming 
blood-red, with a sash and ornaments suited to her 
very youthful years. At that moment (I speak the 
truth) the spirit of life, which dwells in the most 
secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so 
violently as to be frightfully visible in the smallest 
pulses of my body, and with faltering voice said 
these words : ' Behold a God stronger than I, whose 
coming will subdue me.' " 

Of his second meeting he says, " When exactly so 
many days had elapsed after the above described 
apparition of this most noble lady as were neces- 
sary to complete nine wliole years, it chanced that 
on the last of those days this most admirable person 
appeared to me in a dress of the purest white, be- 
tween two noble ladies older than herself, and pass- 
ing along the street she turned her eyes to the spot 
where, trembling with fear, I stood, and with an in- 
effable courtesy (which now has its reward in eter- 
nity) saluted me in so striking a manner, that I 
seemed to reach the very extreme of happiness. 



BANTE. 129 

The hour at which I received this most bewitching 
salutation was precisely the noon of the day, and as 
this was the first time that her words had reached 
my ears, the pleasure which I received was such that 
I quitted the company, as it were, in a state of intox- 
ication, and, retiring to my solitary chamber, I sat 
down to meditate on this most courteous lady. Dur- 
ing my meditation a sweet sleep came over me, in 
which appeared a wonderful vision." 

The vision is minutely described, and is followed 
by his first love sonnet. When the father of Beat- 
rice died, Dante's sympathy for her sorrow was so 
great that he fell ill, and on the ninth day of his 
indisposition he saw a vision of the death of ,Beat- 
rice herself. 

Mne was to him the most sacred of numbers, and 
when Beatrice dies he says, "According to the mode 
of reckoning in Italy, her blessed soul departed in 
the first hour of the ninth day of the month, and 
according to the computation in Syria, she died in 
the ninth month of the year, for the first month 
is their Tismin (Tizri), which is our October. And 
according to our calculations, she departed in that 
year of our calendar, that is, in the year of our Lord 
in which the perfect number has been nine times 
completed in the century in which she was born in 
the world, and she was a Christian of the thirteenth 



130 DANTE. 

century. The following may be a reason why this 
number was. so propitious to her : since, according 
to Ptolemy, and the belief thi'oughout Christendom, 
there are nine stars which move, and according to 
the common belief, these stars have an influence on 
things here below, according to their positions — this 
number was propitious to her in giving it to be un- 
derstood, that at the time of her generation all the 
nine morning stars w^ere in the most perfect con- 
junction." 

At Beatrice's death, his vehement anguish was so 
overpowering, that he addressed an extravagant let- 
ter to the " potentates of the earth," informing them 
that " the whole city of Florence was widowed by 
her loss." 

But this is the embroidered side of the tapestry of 
his love history. The reverse does not altogether 
correspond- 

Strange to say, w^e hear nothing of his ever having 
sought Beatrice in marriage, nor of his sufferings 
when, at the age of twenty, a bridal ring was placed 
upon her delicate finger by another hand. 

After her death, which he so violently laments, he 
declares that he consecrates his whole life to her 
memory, and that he " hopes to speak of her as no 
woman was ever spoken of before ; " and somewhat 
later he bitterly reproaches himself (in " The Con- 



DANTE. 131 

vinto") because he is attracted to a certain lady by 
her compassionate looks and earnest sympathy for 
his grief. When he finds his thoughts turning too 
often to " the gentle stranger," he upbraids himself 
for the temporary solace, as though the pleasurable 
emotion were a crime. 

Yet, in 1293, only three years after the death of 
Beatrice, he marries Gremma Donati, and in the 
course of time becomes the father of seven children. 
Surely this Gemma must have been one of the most 
patient, forbearing, and un jealous of womankind, for 
Dante continues to rave of his beloved Beatrice, and 
his writings continue to be full of his personal expe- 
riences ; he continues to admit the reader into the 
inner sanctuary of his soul ; he continues to 

" Throw out acclamations of self-thinking, self -adoring," 

though poor Gemma and his qtdver with the seven 
arrows are ignored. In the Purgatorio alone, one 
passing allusion is made to his family. All that 
was real and tangible had not the same actual exist- 
ence to him as that which was ideal or visionary. 
The uncomplaining woman who sat by his hearth 
and cradled his children in her arms, had a less j96>5- 
itive existence than the departed Beatrice, whom 
he could scarcely be said to have known — a pro- 
ceeding which a prosaic friend of ours quaintly pro- 
nounces, '^^oetic^ not proper.^'' 



132 DANTE, 

Besides this, Boccaccio tells us that Beatrice -was 
by no means the poet's only flame. One of the ob- 
jects of his admiration has come down to us as Gen- 
tucca of Lucca, sometimes called Porgoletta ; an- 
other is said to have dwelt among the green hills 
of the Casentino, and seems to have been beloved in 
spite of a goitre / and to each of these fair ones the 
" true lover " poet wrote impassioned sonnets. 

He gave to his daughter the name of Beatrice, 
perhaps in remembrance of his first love, whom he 
wished the world to believe his only love. Of this 
daughter little is known. She was a nun in the 
convent at Bavenna at the time of her father's 
death. His wife he never saw after his exile. 

After calling to mind these rather startling little 
biographical facts, are we not justified in saying, 
that, although Dante was a great genius, he was by 
no means the most Christian of poets, the noblest 
of men and the truest of lovers ? Heaven defend 
the young maidens of the present generation from 
such a love! or the destined wives from such a 
husband ! 



FLORENTINE FEUDS. 



Sebbavbzza, Valley of the Apennines, 
Near Florence, Aug. 22, 1865. 

Some of the most thrilling episodes in Florentine 
history are those which record the deadly fends that 
separated illustrions families, or existed between the 
nobles and the people — feuds which lasted for cen- 
turies, and supplied the chronicler with an abundant 
treasury of romantic incidents. 

The Ghibellines were the ancient nobility of 
Florence, and were opposed to the Guelphs, v/ho 
were the representatives of the people. Their furi- 
ous dissensions involved the Florentine republic in 
numerous sanguinary wars, threw the Government 
into confusion, and entailed on all classes a perplex- 
ing series of misfortimes. 

The feud, which originated in a private quarrel 
between Buondelmonti and Tifonti, culminated in a 
fearfully tragic catastrophe, and was most fatal and 
enduring in its conseqaences. 

In 1215, the Order of Knighthood was conferred 
upon Mazzingno of the IVLaz'zinghi. He gave a 

. (133) 



13^ FLOBEXTiyE FEUDS. 

feast to celebrate an event which, did him so mnch 
honor. Buondehnonte Buondehnonti, a yonng and 
gallant cavalier, noted for the attractions of his per- 
son and the fascination of his manners, was invited. 
An altercation arose between two of the guests, 
Uberti Infangati and Oddo Tifonti. The fiery 
Buondelmonti, ever ready to plunge into a quarrel, 
started up, and took sides with Infangati. His 
manner was so violent and his language so vehem- 
ent, that Tifonti seized a plate from the convivial 
board and dashed it in his face. At this indignity 
all the guests sprang from their seats. The fi'iends 
of Buondelmonti drew their dao^^ers and rnshed 
upon Tifonti. He must inevitably have lost his life 
had he not been defended and rescued by the cooler 
portion of the company. The host made an elo- 
quent appeal to the excited young men, and finally 
succeeded in calming their ire and reconciling Tif- 
onti and Buondelmonti to each other. They shook 
hands, and the guests reseated themselves at the 
banqnet table. But it was feared that the reconcili- 
ation thns forced upon the cavaliers would not be 
permanent. To ensure its duration, a marriage was 
proposed between young Buondelmonti and the 
niece of Oddo Tifonti, of the noble family of Am- 
edei. Buondelmonti was too courteous to refuse 
the proposition, although he had no preference for 



FLGBENTINE FEUDS. 135 

the young lady thus suddenly offered to him as a 
bride; to have declined her hand would have 
added a fresh insult to the one he had already 
given Tifonti. Preparations were forthwith made 
for a magnificent wedding. 

When these tidings reached the ears of Madonna 
Aldruda, of the noble Donati family, she was filled 
with dismay. She had watched the young Buon- 
delmonti from his childhood, and in her heart had 
selected him for the bridegroom of her beautiful 
daughter, just budding into womanhood. She 
could not resign hei*self to this sudden awakening 
from her brilliant dreams. At the hour when she 
knew Buondelmonti would pass her liouse, she stood 
in her doorway to salute him. The young cavalier 
reined in his steed when he saw her, and after she 
had greeted him with even more than wonted cour- 
tesy, she drew forward her lovely daughter, and 
presenting her to him, said, " This have I he^tfor 
theer' 

The impressionable youth was charmed by the 
modesty and beauty of the young maiden, and 
touched by the words of the mother. Prompted by 
an unreflecting impulse, he sprang from his horse, 
and taking the young girl by the hand, replied, " 7 
should he ungratefid to refuse your gift, lady^"^ 
and entered the house. During this, his first inter- 



136 FLOHENTINE FEUDS. 

view witli the fair damsel, be became so much en- 
amored, that he resolved to break his faith with the 
niece of Tifonti. He at once betrothed himself to 
the daughter of Madonna Aldruda Donati, and 
their nuptials took place without delay. 

When Oddo Tifonti learned that the affianced 
husband of his niece had wedded a Donati, he 
vowed a terrible vengeance. 

The enraged family of the forsaken lady met in 
council, and decided that Buondelmonti should be 
severely wounded and maimed, as the penalty of 
his inconstancy. But Mosca Lamberti deemed 
each punishment insufficient. '^ This King has got 
a head!^'' he ejaculated as he wrathfuUy arose to 
demand a sterner retribution. Then it was decided 
that Buondelmonti should suffer death. 

Easter Sunday is celebrated by the Catholic 
Church as one of its holiest and grandest festivals. 
That was the day selected for the execution of 
Buondelmonti's sentence. He had been married 
one Aveek. lie rode gayly forth on that bright 
Easter Sunday, attired in a suit of pure white, and 
upon a white steed ; his young bride herself had 
buckled on his sword. It may well be imagined 
with what loving pride the innocent girl watched 
the noble and handsome cavalier as he mounted his 



FLOBENTINE FEUDS. 137 

horse in his bridal garb. She was never more to 
look upon his living face ! 

He rode rapidly over the Ponte Vecchio (now the 
^veil-known Jeweller's bridge), but at the foot of the 
bridge received a blow upon his head, which hurled 
Mm from his horse. Oddo Tifonti then fell upon 
him, and with his own hands opened his enemy's 
veins, and savagely watched him bleed to death. 

The tradition further says that his young bride 
was seized and placed in an open car, which held 
the bleeding body of her husband, and with his 
head laid upon her lap, the car was drawn through 
the streets of Florence to exliibit the vengeance 
which a noble and insulted family had taken upon 
a faithless cavalier. 

The whole city took part in this quarrel. Of 
sixty-two Florentine noble families, thirty-nine be- 
came Guelphs or fi-iends of the Buondelmonti, and 
the rest Ghibellines or partisans of the Amedei; 
and the two parties were ever after the most invet- 
erate foes. Constant contentions, bloody frays, and 
even desperate wars sprang out of this unhappy di- 
vision. 

At a little later period, 1258, a most romantic in- 
cident gave an important place in history to another 
member of the Bnondehnonti family — like his 
predecessor, a young and gallant cavalier. 



138 FLOBEKTINE FEUDS, 

Between the illustrioiis family of the Bardi 
(whose ancient mansion is still yisible in the street 
of that name), and the family of the Buondelmonti 
a most implacable hereditary hatred had existed for 
generations. 

Ippolito Buondelmonti, in his twenty-first year, is 
described as a golden-haired, blue-eyed, symmetric- 
ally proportioned yonth, of noble presence. He 
had an enthusiastic temperament, a warm heart, 
and a character richly endowed with generous and 
manly attributes. Unfortunately, he fell in love 
with Dianora dei Bardi, the daughter of the bitter- 
est enemy of his house. He had beheld he]' in 
church, and from that time haunted the street in 
which she lived. It is said that the apparent hope- 
lessness of his passion caused him a dangerous ill- 
ness. During this period his devoted mother suc- 
ceeded in obtaining his confidence. Instead of re- 
proaching her son for his weakness, and bidding 
him forget the young maiden to whom he had given 
his heart, she gave him most tender and womanly 
sympathy, and even bade him hope that the breach 
between the two contending families might be 
healed, and Dianora become his bride. Her words 
of consolation possessed a restorative power that 
acted like magic, and Ippolito recovered with a ra- 



^ 



FLORENTINE FEUDS. 139 

pidity which astonished and perplexed his physi- 
cians. 

Meantime the mother formed a plan which ena- 
bled the lovers to meet, upon the occasion of a great 
festival, given at Monticelli, the villa of one of her 
ancient fi-iends. The hostess and mother even al- 
lowed the youthful couple an opportunity of con- 
versing without witnesses. During that single 
interview Dianora was wooed and won by the enemy 
of her house. The happy pair were not only 
affianced, but the day of their marriage was fixed, 
and the manner in which Dianora was to be stolen 
from her father's house concerted. In ten days a 
priest and proper witnesses were to assemble in the 
chapel of the Servite convent of the Holy Trinity, 
at an altar belonging to the Buondelmonti. Ippo- 
lito was to let his lady love know that all was in 
readiness, by giving her a signal as he passed be- 
neath her balcony on that day, at a certain hour ; 
and in the dead of the night he was to climb to her 
chamber window, by means of the silken ladder, 
then greatly in vogue, and return with his bride. 

At the hour agreed upon, the signal was duly 
given, and Dianora, very joyful at heart, withdrew, 
to wait for the coming night. Ippolito had made 
all his preparations, and having concealed his silken 
ladder within his cap, set out, soon after midnight^ 



liO FLOBENTINE FEUDS. 

for the house of his betrothed. Just as he had 
passed the Poute Yecchio, and entered the Yia dei 
Bardi, he heard behmd him the tramping feet of 
the Bargello and his men, the patrol, and seized 
with a sudden panic, imagined they were in pursuit 
of him. Instead of attempting to hide himself, 
which he could easily have done by slipping into 
some of the narrow streets, he fled down the Yia 
dei Bardi, and thus attracted the attention of the 
patrol, who at once gave chase. His swift feet* 
might still have given him a chance of escape, but 
his cap, with its betraying contents, fell off, and he 
stopped to recover the lost treasure, upon which his 
future happiness depended. That brief pause gave 
the patrol time to reach and capture him. 

He v\^as instantly thrown into prison. ^Vhen he 
was questioned, instead of avowing the truth, which 
he thought might tarnish the fair name of his bride, 
he accused himself of being engaged in a liouse- 
breaking expedition, and confirmed his story by de- 
tails which seemed to leave no doubt of its truth. 

Outrages were very frequent in those days, and 
it was necessary that justice should be dealt out 
summarily. The Guelph magistrate, if he would 
conciliate the good-will of the people, must, per- 
force, exert the authority of the law as unhesitat- 
ingly over a patrician offender as over the meanest 



FLOBENTINE FEUDS. 141 

citizen. On the very morning after his capture, 
Ippolito Buondehnonti, proved guilty by his own 
confession, was condemned to be beheaded. 

His courage, and his determination to preserve 
his secret, . remained unshaken by this sentence. 
His mother was admitted to his prison, and by her 
prayers and tears strove to induce him to let her 
reveal the truth and declare the part she had her- 
self taken in aiding his fatal expedition; but he 
withstood all her entreaties. He said he had but 
one vrish, and that was to behold Dianora once 
more. He therefore charged his mother to go to 
the Bargello, and petition him to allow the pro- 
cession which would conduct him to the place of 
execution to pass through the Yia dei Bardi. 

This petition was readily granted. Soon after 
dawn on the morrow the procession issued from 
the prison doors. It was composed of the Bargello 
and his pikemen ; then a couple of priests walking 
on either side of the prisoner, and chanting the 
Penitential Fsalms; then the headsman, with his 
bared axe on his shoulder ; then more pikemen ; and 
then a crowd of people, who volunteered their at- 
tendance, and joined in the chants as they walked. 

Dianora, when she arose that day, to the great 
surprise of her maidens, arrayed herself in her most 
superb attire. The members of her family had all 



1^2 FLOREJyTiyE FEUDS. 

assembled on the balcony to see the pr<5cession pass, 
and to glory over tbe humiliation and punishment 
of a detested Bnondelmonti. Dianora did not join 
them nntil she heard that the procession was witl^in 
sight. 

Just as it passed in fi-ont of the balcony, and her 
lover raised his eyes to her face, to look the fare- 
well he conld not speak,- Dianora, with pale cheeks 
and flashing eyes, suddenly stepped forward, and in 
a firm, clear voice, addressed the Bargello and the 
citizens of Florence. She bade them pause to listen 
to the testimony she had to give concerning their 
prisoner, Ippolito dei Bnondelmonti. 

Her proud relatives were too much amazed, too 
completely stimned by the suddenness of her action, 
to silence her. 

The procession halted at her command. The 
crowd expressed the deepest emotion. TThen she 
again prepared to speak, some of the cavaliers of 
her family pressed forward to interfere, but she 
waved them back with a regal gesture, and turned 
to the Bargello and the citizens. 

Then in rapid, but elorpient language, she told 
them that she would have been guilty of murder 
had she not spoken ; she declared that Ippolito was 
her affianced husband, in spite of the deadly feud 
which separated their families ; that he had gener- 



FLORENTINE FEUDS. 143 

ously allowed himself to be condemned as a mid- 
night robber to preserve her fair name unsullied ; 
that on the night he was seized, in accordance with 
a plan they had laid, he w^as to have climbed to her 
chamber window to carry his betrothed to the altar ; 
that she had hoped their union would end the 
wicked and senseless feud which existed between 
their houses ; and she concluded by saying that she 
stood there an expectant bride, waiting for the ful- 
filment of her bridegroom's promise. 

The crowd enthusiastically cheered the noble and 
courageous maiden, and would have yielded her 
Ippolito by force, if force had been needed. But 
he, fearing that she would only ruin herself and not 
save him, addressed her as one whom generous pity 
for his misfortune had caused to use this stratagem. 

With a woman's ready wit, she interrupted his 
words, and reminded the crowd that a priest must 
have been engaged to perform the marriage cere- 
mony, and added that, as the testimony of that 
priest would prove her assertion, she demanded that 
a proclamation be made ordering him to appear. 

It chanced that this very priest was one among 
the crowd. With great difficulty, he forced his 
way beneath the balcony, and testified that he had 
waited six hours in the Chapel of St. Agnes, liaving 
been ordered by Ippolito to be there for the cele- 



IM ' FLORENTINE FEUDS. . ' 

bration of the holy sacrament of marriage between 
himself and the noble lady, Dianora dei Bardi. 

Then the delighted j)opulace shouted tumultu- 
ously, '^ The prisoner is innocent ! Long live the 
Buondelmonti ! Long live the Bardi ! A Buon- 
delmonti and a Bardi ! Ippolito and Dianora ! 
Peace and union in Florence ! To the palace ! To 
the palace ! " 

The seat of the Bepublican Government was still 
called " Palazzo Yecchio " — on the Piazza Grand 
Duca. 

The Bardi could not — dared not — gainsay the 
popular request. The rival families were forced 
together by a cm-rent too strong to be resisted. Ip- 
polito was conducted by his guard to the palace. 
Dianora was escorted by her amazed but powerless 
relatives, and joined him there. Before an im- 
mense crowd, not made up of the people alone, but 
also composed of the principal families of Florence, 
Ippolito dei Buondelmonti and Dianora dei Bardi 
were united, and the feud between the rival houses 
was at an end. 



^^^i?^: 




FEUDS BETWEEN THE 
AND NEEL 



BIANCHI 



There is nothing more remarkable in Florentine 
history than the endless fends between the nobles 
and the people, or the nobles and one another, 
which for centuries distracted the Commonwealth, 
and occasioned not merely loss of individual life and 
property, and the demolition of so many stately pal- 
aces and other superb buildings, but culminated in 
fierce and protracted wars. And there is, perhaps, 
nothing in Florentine history more singular than 
the trivial first causes which gave rise to those bat- 
tle-generating feuds. 

T. A. Trollope, whose indefatigable researches 
have enabled him to produce the most complete his- 
tory of the Florentine Commonwealth which has 
ever been written, says these divisions "must be 
attributed to some underlying cause, of longer and 
deeper significance than any to which they are at- 
tributed. A match falling into a powder barrel is 
in one sense the cause of all the wide-spread ruin 
7 (145) 



1-iG FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCRI AND NEPJ. 

that follows. But the destriictive force which has 
been put into activity, had been previously prepared 
and stored up, without which the accidental match 
would have been harmless." Yet it is of interest to 
trace the often trivial circumstances which liirhted 
the ready match and caused the explosion. 

One of the most bloody encounters between the 
Florentines and their rivals, the Pisans, owed its 
origin to a lap-dog. The story runs thus : When 
the Emperor Frederick II. was crowned in Eome, 
22d of March, 1220, all the Italian cities sent am- 
bassadors to do honor to his Majesty. Between 
Florence and Pisa there always existed a bitter 
jealousy. As a matter of course, the rival cities 
selected men of the highest position in their commu- 
nity, and the ones most fitted to grace a royal festi- 
val. 

A Itoman Cardinal gave a dinner to the Floren- 
tine ambassadors and another to the Pisans. The 
banquet to the Florentines took place first. The 
Cardinal had a lap-dog of rare beauty, which gam- 
bolled around the feet of the ambassadors and won 
great adim' ration. One of the Florentine represen- 
tatives was so much chai-med that his Eminence 
presented him the little favorite, and begged that he 
would send for it whenever he pleased. 

Tlic next day, the Pisan ambassadors dined with 



FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NERI. 147 

the Cardinal. The clog had not yet been claimed 
by the Florentine ambassador, and again he sported 
about the guests, and was caressed and admired as 
before. It was an odd coincidence, that one of the 
Pisan ambassadors conceived snch a fancy for the 
dog that he begged the Cardinal to bestow it upon 
him. The Cardinal, qidte forgetting his imjpromptu 
gift to the noble Florentine, very courteously told 
the Pisan to consider the dog his own. A little 
later, a messenger came from the Florentine ambas- 
sador to claim the dog, and it was promptly deliv- 
ered. Yv^hen the Pisan ambassador's messenger 
arrived for the same pm'pose, the dog was gone. 
The Pisan was greatly enraged, and insisted that the 
dog was his by right, and should be yielded up to 
him. The Florentine refused to relinquish his 
highly valued pet. The ambassadors met in the 
streets of Pome, and an angry argument ensued. 
They did not hesitate to insult one another grossly, 
and furious words were followed by furious blows. 
A regular street fray was the sequence. The Pisans' 
came off the victors, for the Pisan ambassadors were 
accompanied by fifty Pisan soldiers. All the Flor- 
entines in Pome at once assembled and attacked the 
Pisans, and in this second contest, the battle appears 
to have ended in favor of the Florentines. 

"When the news of this dissension reached Pisa, 



148 FEUDS BETYiEEN BIANCHI AND NERI. 

the Government of that city immediately took pos- 
session of all the merchandise in Pisa which be- 
longed to Florentine citizens. The Florentines 
made every effort to have their property restored, 
without extending the qnarrel farther; but the 
Pisans were deaf to all offers of reconciliation, and 
refused to give up the goods, of which there was a 
very large quantity, waiting to be imported in 
Pisan ships. The patience of the Florentines be- 
came exhausted, and they marched out and gave 
battle to the obstinate Pisans. The encounter 
lasted the whole day — many lives were lost — the 
Pisans were wholly defeated, and the Florentines 
marched back with thirteen hundred prisoners, 
among whom were numerous members of the first 
families in Pisa. Query — Had the Cardinal's 
pretty lap-dog never existed, or had it been less at- 
tractive, or had the Cardinal been less liberally 
careless in his donations, would that terrible day's 
fighting ever have occurred ? Would those heaps of 
dead have been left on the plains of Castel del 
Bosco^ and would those thirteen hundred prisoners 
have been carried in triumph to Florence % 

In the " Florentine Feuds " we narrated the thril- 
ling story of the handsome but inconsequent young 
Buondelnionte^ and the origin of the terrible Gueljph 
and Ghihelline feud. That protracted and bloody 



FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBL 149 

strife had nominally ended, when it was succeeded 
by the fend between the Bianchi (White Party) 
and the J^eri (Black Party), which, in the com- 
mencement of the fourteenth century, grew out of 
the gambols of two children. 

The children were cousins. Their mothers were 
daughters of the same father, though by different 
wives. They belonged to the most wealthy and 
powerful family of Pistora — the Cancelliere. 
Each sister boasted of more than a hundred 
retainers. The name of one sister was Bicinca^ 
hence her descendants were called Cancelliere 
Bianchi / the offsprings of the other sister, for dis- 
tinction's sake, were called Cancelliere Neri. [In 
Italy the maiden name is always retained, and that 
of the husband is often made to precede, instead of 
following, the lady's family name.] 

Young Lore the son of Guglielrno de Cancelliere 
{Neri)^ while playing with his cousin, the son of 
Bertioca de Cancelliere {Bianchi), accidentally in- 
flicted a serious wound. The father of Lore was 
much distressed when he heard of this chance 
injury, and at once sent Lore to the father of the 
Y/ounded boy to express his contrition, and to beg 
forgiveness both of father and son. 

Lore's apologies and explanations were fiercely 
interrupted by his inhmnan uncle, who cried out : 



150 FEUDS BETWEEX BIAXCHI ASD XERL 

" Boy, TOn ^ere ii<:.t prudent in showing yonr face 
here ; neither was vonr father wiie in sending yon! " 

He then turned to a servant, and bade him sum- 
n::i the cook, and order him to bring his cleaver. 
"^Viieii the latter appeared, his master pc»inted to the 
affrighted Lore, and then to a horse-trough near, 
and commanded the servants to hold the child 
while the cook struck off his right hand (the hand 
which had injured his c-ousin) upon the horse-trough. 
The cook and the servants did not dare to disobey. 
the child's hand was quickly severed. His uncle 
savagely seized the fallen member, and, placing it 
in the bor s other hand, said : ^ Take that to thy 
father from me.*' 

The Xeri, maddened by a deed so cowardly and 
so cruel, summoned retainers and friends, flew to 
arms, and attacked :le Bianchi. The citizens 
joined in the fray, some taking sides with one party, 
some with the other. The chiefs of the two parties 
were exiled from Pistora, and sent to Florence. 
There the Bianchi were received by the Cerchi, and 
the XeH by the Donaii and Frescobaldi families. 
The more aristocratic portion of the community 
sided with the Xeri^ the Guelph populace sup- 
ported the Bianchi J and a most bloody warfare, in 
which all the distinguished men of that age took 
part, broke out, and gave birth to numberless acts 



FEUD8 BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBL 151 

of inconceivable barbarity. The great Dante up- 
held the Bianchi. 

Between the Cerchi and Donati families, who 
had ranged themselves, the one on the side of the 
Bianchi, the other of the N'eri, a most irreconcila- 
ble feud existed. 

The Cerchi w^ere very opnlent merchants, the 
Donati impoverished nobles.' Unfortunately they 
were neighbors. The Cerchi had purchased one of 
the magnificent old palaces which had belonged to 
the Guidi, E'ear by resided the Donati in a more 
humble mansion. The Cerchi made a prodigal dis- 
play of their wealth ; they kept many servants, 
horses and equipages, and the young men, av/kward 
and plebeian, though handsome and intelligent, 
dressed with surpassing splendor. 

Corso, the head of the Donati family, openly 
ridiculed the manners, bearing, and low-bred osten- 
tation of his jparvenu neighbor. He nicknamed 
Yieri de Cerchi the donkey of the ward, and, when 
Yiei'i w^as to speak in council, would ask " if the 
donkey had brayed that day I " 

The historian, Dino Compagni, says of Cor so 
Donati : " He was of noble race, liandsome in 
person, a good speaker, of elegant manners, and of 
a subtle intelligence, allied to a heart always intent 
on evil. lie and his band committed many deeds 



152 FEUBS BETWEEN BIANCHI ANB NERI. 

of arson and robbery in the city. On account of 
his arrogance he was nicknamed " the haronP 

Dante married Gemma, a member of this Donati 
family, and in his youth, strange to say, was much 
attached to the fierce, unscrupulous "Baron." In 
after years they became deadly foes, and Carso 
Donati was one of the most powerful instruments in 
promoting Dante's banishment fi'om Florence, in 
procuring a decree for the confiscation of his 
property, and in sentencing him to be burned at the 
stake if lie ever fell into the hands of the Florentine 
Government. 

It was almost impossible for the members of the 
Donati and Cerchi families to meet without fio^ht- 
iug. 

One day they were both at the funeral of a lady of 
the Frescohaldi family. The nobles had the privi- 
lege of sitting upon benches ; all others sat on reed 
mats. The Ceroid and Donati found themselves 
placed opposite to each other — the treasureless 
Donati upon their seats of honor, and the opulent 
Cerchi on the ground, almost at their feet. This 
position galled the one party, and rendered the 
other insolently exultant. They watched each 
other's movements with angry eyes. During the 
ceremony, one of the Cerchi rose from his seat, it 
is said, merely to adjust the folds of his dress be- 



FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NEBl. 153 

neath him. The Donati imagined that he had 
started up to commit some violence. They all rose 
in haste, drew their swords, and regardless of the 
sacred place, which w^as over the corpse lying 
before the altar, and the priest performing the 
funeral rites, the two parties rushed furiously upon 
each other, and were with difficulty separated. 

In that same year (1300) they had another 
encounter, which ended more disastrously. On the 
evening of the first day of the annual May festivi- 
ties, a party of ladies were dancing on the Piazza 
di Santa Trinita, surroimded by an admiring crowd. 
Among the lookers-on w^ere a group of the young 
Cerchi and their friends, mounted on their horses. 
Soon the Donati, also mounted, joined the crowd, 
and pressed forward to obtain a view of the dancers. 
Accidentally the two parties pushed each other. In 
a moment swords flashed from their scabbards ; 
the dance was broken up ; the terrified ladies fled, 
shrieking, to their homes — the Piazza, w^hich a 
moment: before had echoed to gay music, now re- 
sounded with the clash of arms, the trampling of 
horses' hoofs, and the cries of the charging foes. 
Furious combatants met v/here the feet of fair 
women had so lately glided through the graceful 
measure ; riot and confusion usurped the place of 
gayety and gallantry. One of the CercJii had his 



154 FEUDS BETWEEN BIANCHI AND NERL 

nose cut off by a Donati sabre. AYhen the fight 
ended, a new element of hatred, and a stronger 
thirst for revenge, had been infused into the minds 
of these adversaries. 

On Christmas Day of the same year, two mem- 
bers of the opposing families came again into collis- 
ion. A holy fi-iar was preaching on the Piazza, in 
front of the Chm-ch Santa Croce. Bimone Donati 
formed one of the listening crowd. Nicola de 
Cerchi came riding by alone, on his way to a villa 
without the cit}^ Shnone, at the sight of a Cerchi 
unprotected, turned from the pious exhortation of 
the good friar, spurred his horse, and came up with 
his unguarded foe outside of the city walls, attacked 
him unexpectedly, and murdered him on the spot ! 
But Niccola^ as he fell from his horse, struck at 
Simone, and inflicted a wound with his dagger, 
from which Simone died the next day. 

This Simone was the son of Messer Cor so 
Donati J " the Baron,'' who became very celebrated 
in Florentine history ; we constantly see him at the 
head of the party disturbing the public peace, and 
committing all manner of outrages. Ilis cruelty 
seems to have extended itself alike to men and 
women, as his treatment of his beautiful sister, 
Piccarda, illustrates. In spite of her opposition, he 
promised her hand to Hossellino delta Tosca. To 



FEUDS BETWEEN BIANOHI AND NEUI 155 

avoid this hateful union, she fled, during her 
brother's absence, to the Convent of St. Clare, and 
took the vows of a nun. When Corso Donati heard 
this nevrs he hastened to Florence, assembled twelve 
ruiSans, and with them scaled the walls of the con- 
vent, seized his sister, and, regardless of the holy 
vows she had made, gave her to Rossellino della 
Tosca. But she was soon rescued from a merciless 
brother and a pitiless husband. The horror of her 
situation and the terrible scenes through wliich she 
had passed, snapped the cord which bound her to a 
life of despair. She only survived her union a few 
days. 

Oorso Donates end was a fitting termination to his 
turbulent and lawless career. In 1308, he was sus- 
pected of conspiring to become despotic master of 
the Commonwealth. He was declared guilty by 
the Podestd^ and condemned to death. But he and 
his allies strongly barricaded the streets adjacent to 
his house, and gave battle to the party who came to 
seize him. While defending the barricade in front, 
he was attacked in the rear ; but he succeeded in 
cutting his way through the enemy, and with a few 
trusty friends reached llovezzano^ a villa three 
miles from the city. There he was overtaken, dis- 
armed, and finally captured. lie was resolved not to 
be carried into the city alive, to be subjected to the 



156 FEUDS BETWEEX BIAXCRI ASD SEPJ. 

scoffs of tlie rabble, and be consigned to the hands 
of the execntioner. He tried to bribe his captors to 
kill him. but in vain. There was no means of self- 
destrnction within his reach, and his bodily exertions 
had brought on a sudden and violent attack of gout 
in the feet and hands. He was now within one mile 
of the city, and desperate. Suddenly, he threw 
himself from his horse to the ground. The soldier 
who was guarding him imagined that he was 
making an attempt to escape, and pioned him to the 
earth with his lance. Thus Donati's stratagem suc- 
ceeded, and he never more entered the walls of 
Florence. The soldiers left his body in the road. 
The monks of St. Salvi found it the next day, and 
bm'ied it in their cemetery. 




SEEEAVEZZA. 



* Sereavbzza, Aug. 15, 1865. 

In one of tlie valleys of the marble district of 
the Apennines lies the little village of Serravezza. 
The rivers Serra and Yezza, threading their way 
between the mountains, suddenly bend and unite, 
and the village built upon their banks, at the point 
of union, takes the combined name of both rivers. 
The mills belonging to the marble quarries are 
worked by the waters of these rivers. They are 
narrow streams, that gracefully wind in and out, 
now gliding smoothly, and now leaping over rocks 
and forming unexpected cascades. The banks are 
richly wooded, and here and there the trees dip into 
the stream. The verdant mountains start up, 
almost perpendicularly, on either side, the green of 
their chestnut, fig, and olive trees often suddenly 
interrupted by '^ slides '^'^ (as they are called) of 
gleaming white marble. 

The little village of Serravezza is quaint and 
primitive, but picturesque in a high degree. It is 

(157) 



158 SFFJUVEZZA. 

composed of a mere cluster of houses planted to- 
gether in a narrow strip along the banks of the river, 
and girdled in bv the mountains. Yet it has a some- 
what imposing little church, with the Duomo and 
Campanile, adorned within by pictures and statues 
of no small merit. Beside the church stands a hos- 
pital, a large commodious building, endowed by 
Cavaliere Campana. The constant accidents in the 
mountains and in the quarries render this admira- 
bly conducted hospital a most important institution. 
Every day its doors admit some poor sufferer whose 
limbs have been crushed by a fall of marble, or 
who has met with some other disaster inseparable 
fi'om his vocation. 

At the head of the valley, commanding a superb 
prospect, stands the villa of the Medici — a favor- 
ite resort of the late Grand Duke. Situated in this 
small, secluded, peacefid-looking village, one cannot 
help wondering to see this unpretending looking 
villa well provided with po7't holes for cannon, as 
if the attacks of an enemy were at all times antici- 
pated. A subterranean passage runs for a mile be- 
neath the mountain, and leads from the villa to the 
sea-shore. Here the AEedici always kept a vessel 
prepared for their escape. The villa has spacious 
stables, with accommodations for thirty-six horses ; 
also, a chapel, and a large garden surrounded by 



SEBBAVEZZA. 169 

massive stone walls. Close by is a marble quarry, 
which belonged to this noble family. The property 
of the Medici is now held by the Government of 
Victor Emmanuel. The town authorities of Seria- 
vezza express great discontent because no title-deed 
proves that the gromid upon which the Medician villa 
stands has ever been paid for. Victor Enmianuel 
offers the villa for sale, that the authorities may re- 
ceive the price they demand for the land. The 
villa, it is said, cost between thirty and forty thous- 
and dollars to build — it is offered for sale for eight 
thousand ! 

In the centre of the village stands a stone col- 
umn, out of w^hich rises an iron spike, placed there 
to receive the gory head of the decapitated traitor. 
Doubtless, before the Tuscan law forbade capital 
punishment, it has often been capped by this ghast- 
ly adorning. 

The little village, small and obscure as it is, 
boasts of its men of genius — or, rather, of emh^yo 
genius. It may be the close proximity to the mar- 
ble, or that the vocation of stone earth is one low 
step in the ascent to high art, but among these stone- 
cutters there is a small band aspiring to become 
sculptors — making uncouth attempts to cut figures 
in stone, hideous apes, wild beasts, and other un- 
graceful forms ; but from among these rude essays, 



160 8ERRAVEZZA. 

some beautiful creation will no doiibt one day spring 
beneath the hand of genius yet undeveloped. 

And Serravezza boasts of a musical genius — a 
young man of twenty years, occupied in the iron 
foundry, who composes and improvises music in the 
most wonderful manner. He is self-taught. The 
only instrument he could afford to purchase is an 
accordeon, but listening to him, as he played beneath 
our window the other evening, it seemed absolutely 
incredible that the instrument from which he was 
drawing such touching strains — now so strong and 
full, now so meltingly sweet and echoing, so deli- 
cate and varied — coidd have been a simple accor- 
deon. 

Then Serravezza has her decayed actor, once the 
representative of Eoman Emperors and Greek 
Kings, but who now, in the " sere and yellow leaf " 
of his life, condescends to keep an alhergo, or inn 
— we could hardly venture to designate the humble 
locality as a hotel. This dramatic satellite amuses 
his patrons, not merely by reciting passages from 
celebrated plays, but often by going through whole 
tragedies, admirably personating each character in 
turn. Ilis declamation is remarkable for its power 
and pathos, and though he is quite an old man, his 
gestures have an eloquent grace peculiar to the 
Italian. 



sehmavezza. iGl 

The native poet, or improvisatorej we learn, is 
often to be met with here. And surely, if there is 
one spark of poetic fire in the breast, it must be 
fanned into life by the grandeur and beauty of 
these glorious mountains. 

Albeit the scenery of the Apennines, in these re- 
gions though different in character, is as grandly 
beautiful as that of the finest portions of Switzer- 
land, strange to say, the latter is flooded with 
tourists, while these picturesque Apennine peaks, 
only three hours' journey by railroad from Florence, 
are scarcely visited . 

The Pania, the highest of the range, is reached 
after six hours' climbing, starting from Serravezza. 
From its summit the whole coast of the Mediterran- 
ean, from Spezzia to Leghorn, is visible, via Eeggio, 
Leghorn, Pisa, and even Florence can be distinctly 
seen : the latter is sixty miles distant. 

A natural bridge connects two of the mountains 
at their very peaks, 5000 feet above the level of the 
sea. This bridge is a narrovv^ stone ledge, its arch 
160 feet high. It is called the " Madonna's Bridge," 
and the contadini implicitly believe the tradition, that 
the Madonna, in passing over these mountains, de- 
sired to step from one mountain peak to the peak 
adjoining, when immediately the stone formed itseli 



162 SERRAVEZZA. 

into a bridge, barely Tride enongb to permit lier 
dainty feet to walk over in safety. 

Some of the marble quarries are several thousand 
feet above the level of the river ; a few of them are 
near the very topmost peaks of the mountains. 

The marble is blasted in the mountains, then cut 
into square blocks, then hurled over the side of a 
mountain, upon a marble '' slide^^ down which it 
makes its way with tremendous bounds, the whole 
mountain echoing the roar, while smaller j)ieces of 
marble, with which it comes in contact in its fi-antic 
descent, leap into the air, sometimes to the height 
of sixty feet, enveloped in a cloud of snow-white 
marble dust. 

The '' slide " of marble leads fi'om the quarry to 
the valley. Across this " slide^^ at various distances, 
are erected walls of marble, which give the block 
the direction required, and cause it to fall upon the 
ground in the valley, upon the exact place prepared, 
and where it can be reached by ox carts. 

Xear each quarry are the marble works of the 
proprietors, large, handsome buildings, looking like 
railway stations, where all the process of sawing the 
marble and polishing is accomplished by water- 
power. 

The marble is taken in ox-carts to the Forte di 
Marma, four miles from Serravezza. In calm 



SERRAVEZZA. 163 

weather, tlie oxen are driven, most unwillingly, into 
the sea to the boats. When the weather is too bois- 
terous for them to be forced into the water, the 
small vessels in which the marble is to be conveyed 
to Leghorn are drawn upon the beach, and there 
loaded. The ox-carts are then fastened to the boats 
and the oxen (sometimes fourteen pairs at a time) 
urged into the sea. The marble-laden boat is thus 
launched. 

At the Foi'te di Ifarma the whole beach, for a 
quarter of a mile, is white with blocks of marble 
— marble columns, pedestals, slabs, flooring — look- 
ing, at the first glance, like an endless city of mon- 
nments. At this moment are to be seen upon the 
beach the columns, steps, flower vases, and various 
decorations in colored marble, destined for the new 
opera house now being erected at Paris. 

This beach is one of the most beautiful we have 
ever had the great enjoyment of walking npon. 
When the tide is low, the sand is smooth and firm 
to the foot. On one side stretches the " blue Med- 
iterranean," far as the eye can reach; and, parallel 
with the shore, on the other side, rises the Apennine 
chain, in all its majestic beauty. And if the pictur- 
esque charm of the scene can be heightened, we 
have seen it brought to perfection beneath the su- 



1G4: SEBEAVBZZA. 

perb Italian siinset, flooding tlie heavens with inde- 
scribable glory, while a crowd of lovely, laughing 
girls and merry children sported, npon the beach, 
and dived, and danced, and gambolled in the shin- 
inoj water. 

But to return to the marble quarries. The smaller 
blocks of marble are split at the quarries into slabs, 
and these slabs are carried to the beach upon the 
heads of vjomen. Some women are able to carry 
four marble slabs upon their heads at a time, and 
this over the roughest, steepest, and most difiicult 
mountain paths ! This severe and unfeminine labor 
earns these poor toilers for bread rarely as much 
as a franc (about twenty-two cents) per day, and 
never more. The habit of holding the head erect, 
and poising the body as they step, causes these 
women to move with a iii-m and graceful grandeur 
of step and motion, which would throw into despair 
the representatives of our stage queens (the genuine 
queens are too seldom queenly in gait to be men- 
tioned), if they could behold and then study tlie 
regal carriage of these poor carrier peasants. 

One of the favorite pastimes of the little children 
is to imitate their mothers — pile cakes of mud or 
stones, supposed to be marble slabs, upon their 
heads, then holding themselves erect and steady, 
fold their arms upon their breasts, and step from 



8EBBAVEZZA. 165 

stone to stone in the bed of the river, balanc- 
ing themselves dexterously, and moving with that 
grand step of the mother as she descends the moun- 
tain paths. 

At Serravezza there are quarries of variously col- 
ored marbles, and the scientific agriculturist may 
interest himself by investigating a fact which has 
excited the curiosity and surprise of ^dsitors. The 
peculiar coloring of the different marbles appears 
to be repeated in the beans that grow in the 
valley. There is a pink marble with black veins, 
and there are pink beans Avith the same veihing. 
T]iere is bluish marble with spots, and there are 
beans to match. Greenish marble, and beans of 
precisely the same hue of green — by no means the 
ordinary green of a bean. The yellow marble has 
its yellow bean. There is a cream-colored mar- 
ble with blue veins, and there are cream-colored 
beans with veins of blue. The causes which have 
produced these resemblances may doubtless be ex- 
plained, but the singular resemblance itself cannot 
be explained away. 

We mentioned in the early portion of this letter 
the villa of the Medici, which was a favorite 
resort of the late Grand Duke. We have only just 
learned, in conversing about this villa, a circum- 
stance which does him great honor. We were not 



100 SERRAVEZZA. 

aware that he belonged to the celebrated society of 
the Misericordia — the Brothers of Mercy. 

The members of the Misirecordia are the Good 
Samaritans of Tuscany, who give their own personal 
services to aid the suffering. Many of them belong 
to noble families. At the somid of the deep, sonor- 
ous summoning bell of the Duomo, however these 
members may be employed, whether at marriage 
feast, or taking rest, or occupied in the most grave 
and important duties of life, if it is their week to 
serve, they must leave all and hasten to the Piazza 
del Duomo, to present themselves at the oratory of 
the Misericordia. Ilere the brethren pass iuto the 
robing room, and issue fi'om it, into the chapel, 
clothed in long black robes, with peaked hoods over 
their heads and faces, leaving theii* eyes alone visi- 
ble through two holes cut in the cowl. A large, 
broad-leafed hat hangs at the back, over the shoul- 
ders. They form themselves into pairs, according 
to their height, and raising the black-covered litter 
prepared to receive the sufferer, walk forth with 
even, rapid steps, and in perfect silence. The 
member present who happens to be the highest in 
rank in the hierarchy of the Order, acts as captain, 
walks at the head of the procession, and directs all 
its movements. It is his duty to prepare the appar- 
atus required for the last hurried shrift (should such 



w 



p 



g3 




^^ky/'"" 



SEBEAVEZZA. 167 

be needed) of the dying — the crucifix, the candle, 
the breviary, the holy oil. These are deposited in a 
box and attached to the litter. 

The brethren are not permitted by their laws to 
partake of any refreshment at the house where they 
receive their human burden, save a glass of cold 
water. 

They carry with them a pair of large, clean sheets 
and a counterpane, and with these they enter the 
house of the sick. The sheets are dexterously 
placed beneath the patient — one so as to perfectly 
envelop him, the other to form a sort of hammock, in 
which, covered with the counterpane, he is gently 
borne to the litter. The delicacy and care with 
which the brethren shield their charge from the 
public's curious gaze, while placing him (or her) in 
the litter, has often been a subject of comment. 
The sick person carefully deposited, the litter is 
raised, and the black-muffled cortege proceeds on its 
way to the hospital. It is the duty of one brother, 
if the sick person is supposed to be near his last 
moments, to keep a vigilant watch, and from time to 
time lift the front part of the covering. If he 
sees any alarming symptoms, he strikes three little 
blows on one of the poles. At this signal the bear- 
ers immediately set do^vn the litter, the great black 
covering is thrown aside, the brethren gather round 



16S 8ERRAVEZZA, 

to shield the dying, as much as possible, fi'om the 
gaze of the passer-by, and the sacrament is hurriedly 
administered. 

The Grand Dnke, it is said, was most pimctiial, 
earnest, and efficient in discharging all his duties as 
a member of this Holy Brotherhood. 




THE PKOTESTANT CEMETERY AT 
FLOEENCE. 



MES. BROWNING— DR. SOUTHWOOD S]\nTH— MRS. 
FRANCES TROLLOPE, AND OTHER CELEBRITIES. 

Florence, Nov. — , 1865. 

There are few localities in Florence so replete with 
solemn interest to the English and American travel- 
ler as the Protestant Cemetery. It is situated a short 
distance beyond the Porta a PintL The ground 
rises in gentle undulations from the entrance gate 
to an eminence w^hich commands a prospect of va- 
ried and picturesque loveliness, — a gradual ascent, 
which seems to typify those upward steps which the 
spirit takes after it has thrown off the mortal clog 
interred in that earth. 

There are not many imposing, or even pretentious 
monuments. The one which first attracts the eye is 
that of Pouth Fairleigh, surmounted by a statue of 
Faith, by Fantachiotti. 

8 (169) 



110 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLOREKCE. 

This cemetery holds the ashes of not a few who 
have won renown in Great Britain and America, 
but the one about whose odorous memory there 
clings the deepest, tenderest, most widely-spread in- 
terest, is Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

She loved Italy with a deep, passionate, prayerful 
love and longing for its resurrection fi'om the grave 
of sloth and inertia — with a prophetic foreseeing 
of its restored libeiiy and glory. Floi^nce was so 
entirely the home of her heart, that she seems to be- 
long to Italy rather than to England. In Florence 
the very air is redolent of her presence : go where 
you will, you trace her footsteps — fi-om the heights 
of beautiful Bellosguardo^ lovely Flesole, or sol- 
emnly grand San Mi/iiato, down to the banks of 
the Arno ; through the narrow palace-lined and 
legend-consecrated streets, on the gay CasGine^ in 
the memorable squares, on the picturesque old 
bridges, in the churches, in the galleries, stand- 
ing in rapt admiration before the works of old mas- 
ters — every^where the rhythmic echo of her in- 
spired words ring in the ears. She has sung of 
them all, has linked herself to all by her glorious 
verse. 

Most readers are familiar with her poem entitled 
'• Casa Guidi Windows " — that Casa Guidi which 
now bears a tablet with the inscription — 



PE0TE8TANT CEMETEUY AT FLOUEKCK 171 

" Here lived and died Elizabeth Baekett Bkown- 
ING, wlio united in her heart the knowledge of the 
Learned and the genius of the Poet, and with her 
verses made a golden link between Italy and 
Ensrland. Grateful Florence offers her this me- 
morial, 1861." 

In Casa Guidi her son — the only babe which 
ever rejoiced her yearning heart, and rendered 
perfect her womanhood — first drew breath. In 
Casa Guidi she said to him : 

" The sun strikes, through the windows, up the floor ; 
Out on it, my own young Florentine ; 

Not two years old, and let me see thee more ! 
It grows along thy amber curls, to shiae 

Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look straight before, 
And fix thy brave, blue, English eyes on mine, 

And from thy soul, which fronts the future so, 
With unabashed and unabated gaze, 

Teach me to hope for what the angels know. 
When they smile clear as thou dost ! 

Stand out. my blue-eyed prophet ! — thou to whom 

The earliest world dayhght that ever flowed 
Through Casa Gicidl windows chanced to come ! " 

In Casa Guidi her cold lips for the last time 
pressed those of her ''blue eyed-prophet." From 
Casa Guidi her holy spirit took its heavenward 
flight, before the sorrowing watchers knew that there 
was one angel less on earth. It is related that in 
answer to the inquiry how she felt, she murmured 
her last words, and they were " so lovely ! " A fit- 
ting utterance to fall from those dying lips — and 
how suggestive of her life ! Her eyes were ever 



1 i 2 PBOTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 

fixed upon the beautiful ; or thev beautified, through 
their own hallowing medium, what they had looked 
upon. It is said we are most apt to recognize in 
others what exists in oui'selves ; and hence sprang 
her quick recognition of all that is lovely, noble, and 
good. The evil that glared before eyes less merci- 
ful was ignored by hers ; her spirit, wherever it 
moved, threw a halo of luminous holiness and 
beauty around even commonplace objects and na- 
tures, and lifted them up out of their dull insignifi- 
cance, and converted the prosaic round of daily life 
into poetry. • 

Thousands of feet have visited her grave ; thou- 
sands of hands have plucked the ivy leaves from 
the sod, yet uncovered by the elaborate monument 
which is being sculptured to adorn the spot. 

The Italians, even those who are well educated, 
take but little interest in Ens^lish literature. We 
think it is not too much to say they are better ac- 
quainted with Mrs. Browning's writings than with 
those of any other English author. 

A few steps onward, past the grave of Mrs. Brown- 
inor, we come to that of the celebrated Dr. South- 
wood Smith, a man whom England reveres as largely 
the benefactor of his race. Ilis monument, of pure 
white Serravezza marble, bears this inscription, from 
the pen of Leigh Hunt : 



PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 173 

" Ages shall lienor, in their heart enshrined thee, 
SoTJTHWOOD Smith, physician of mankind, bringer 
of air, light, health, in the homes of the sick poor, 
of happier years to come." 

A bas-relief, beautifully executed by the Ameri- 
can sculptor, Mr. Hart, calls vividly to mind the 
features of the philanthropist — features almost per- 
fect in their benign and holy beauty. The ample 
brov/, the finely shaped eyes, the exquisitely soft 
and benignant mouth, the whole contour of the face, 
manife^ the soul of the man as few souls reveal 
themselves through their covering of clay. 

Mr. Hart has invented an ingenious instrument, 
which enables him to repeat, by exact measurement, 
the features of his sitter. He used this instrument 
in sculpturing the bas-relief of Dr. Southwood 
Smith. Thus there can be no question of the cor- 
rectness of the proportions and the faithfulness of 
the likeness. We are aware that Mr. Hart's inven- 
tion has been ridiculed by some of his brother artists, 
who prefer to exercise their j^owers of idealizing 
upon a portrait, and to improve upon defective na- 
ture ; but the public, who desire to know precisely 
how a great man looked, is Mr. Hart's debtor. We 
learn that, of late, some of the best artists in Flor- 
ence have not disdained, now and then, to ask per- 



174 PROTESTANT CEMETEBT AT FLORENCE. 

mission to use this " nieclianical inventioUj" to test 
the exactness of their own delineations. 

The life of Dr. Southwood Smith is rich in inci- 
dent. One of the most touching is that to which 
his noble work on the Divine Government and his 
valuable and instructive volume on the Physiology 
of Health owe their origin. 

Yerj early in life he became a Cahinist clergy- 
man. One beautiful Saturday afternoon he was 
passing through a field in a little village where he 
had j ust arrived, and where he was to preach on the 
morrow. Suddenly he heard behind him the sound 
of musical voices, and of merry laughter. He 
turned and saw five young girls. A moment after 
they passed him, still laughing and talking. With 
the face of one he was powerfully impressed, and 
her voice thrilled him as though it had been a loved 
and familiar tone. It may seem strangely romantic 
to the wdde range of commonplace people, but the 
young clergyman, who w^as only nineteen years of 
age, watched the merry maidens until tliey reached 
a stile and climbed over. The young girl who had 
so singularly attracted him came last, and when she 
had stepped over and gone on her way, the already 
enamored boy rushed to the spot, and kneeling down, 
kissed the ground which he had seen pressed by her 
feet. The lovely face and melodious voice haunted 



PB0TE8TANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 175 

him all that night. The next morning, when he en- 
tered the pulpit, his eyes fell upon the same coun- 
tenance looking up to his. The five young ladies, 
with an elderly gentleman, were sitting directly be- 
fore him. 

"When the service concluded, several of the parish- 
ioners were presented, and among them the father 
of the five sisters. This gentleman invited the 
young clergyman to his house. From that hour an 
intimacy commenced, which resulted in Southwood 
Smith's winning the heart of the fair girl whom he 
had literally loved at the first glance. Before the 
close of the year the father died, leaving his ^yq 
motherless daughters to the guardianship of the 
youthful clergyman. 

Southwood Smith was only twenty when he be- 
came a bridegroom, and, although his bride was a 
few years his senior, their union is said to have been 
one of unmitigated happiness. In less than four 
years he was the father of two daughters — and 
they were motherless. When her last infant was 
only a few months old, his wife took a severe cold, 
while visiting the poor, and, after a brief illness, 
expired. 

The grief of the widower amounted to despair — 
almost to frenzy. For a season he could find no 
consolation ; but, pondering upon the decrees of that 



176 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLOREXCE. 

Divine Providence wliicli could permit sucli a ca- 
lamity, the light of truth pierced through the clouds 
of rebellion that enyeloped his mind, and he vrrote 
his eloquent hook upon the Divine Government — 
truly the healing offspring of his mounded spirit. 
He, however, entertained the . conviction that his 
wife might have been spared to him, had she not 
been unskilfully and ignorantlj treated ; and he was 
so impressed with this idea, that, in the compassion- 
ate hope of saving others from needlessly enduring 
the terrible blow which had crushed his life, he left 
the ministry and studied medicine. This erudite 
and instructive work upon the Physiology of Health 
was the result of his laborious investigations and 
deductions. 

He not only became an eminent physician, but to 
him England is indebted for her sanitary improve- 
ments, and to him the science of medicine owes 
much of its progress, and the revelation of various 
facts until then unsuspected. 

The last year of his life was passed in Florence, 
the home of liis youno^est daus^hter. 

In another part of the cemetery is the grave of 
the celebrated Mrs. Frances Trollope, the mother of 
the distinguished authoi-s, Anthony Trollope and T. 
Adolphus Trollope. Mrs. Trollope's name is famil- 
iar to all Americans, and it has been difficult for them 



PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE, 177 

to pardon lier first literary effort — a volume in which 
she so savagely, and with snch one-sided pertinacity 
ridiculed their foibles and peculiarities, without do- 
ing justice to what is grand and noble in the na- 
tional character. But her experiences in America 
were confined to a very limited sphere — chiefiy 
"Western — and no one can read her book without 
perceiving how little opportunity she Imd of judg- 
ing Americans out of that narrow circle. 

Mrs. Trollope had reached her fortieth year be- 
fore she aspired to become an authoress ; but her 
pen proved wonderfully fruitful, and her numerous 
works of fiction won her not merely fame, but for- 
tune. 

We remember her well in Paris, when her 
drawing-room was the centre of attraction to artists 
and men of letters. She was a vivacious, agreeable, 
and amiable lady, who possessed the enviable talent 
not merely of shining herself, but of making others 
shine. It was her delight to stretch out a helping 
hand to struggling talent. She was never weary of 
encouraging the faint-hearted, and of giving the full 
meed of appreciation to modest worth. 

During the latter portion of her life she made her 
home in Florence. Her mental poAvers had been 
so largely and incessantly taxed, that they gave way 
beneath the strain, and for some years before her 



178 PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE. 

death she entirely lost her memory — not precisely 
her reason — but certainly her intelligence. She 
resided at the time of her death with her son, T. 
Adolphus Trollope. In spite of her deplorable 
condition, she was far from unhappy. She always 
fancied herself surrounded by books, even when 
there was not a volume within reach, and when 
asked if she needed anything, replied, ^' Xo. You 
see I have plenty of books. 1 can always amuse 
myself." She died at an advanced age, in 1864. 

Xot far from her grave is that of the wife of T. 
Adolphus Trollope, Theodosia Trollope, who died 
in 1865. She also was a successful writer, and was 
endowed with a richly cultivated mind, great fasci- 
nation of manner, cliarms of person, and remark- 
able musical talent, doubtless iiilierited from her 
mother, Madame Garrow, a prima donna well 
known to fame. 

In accordance with the Florentine custom, the 
municipality has decided to place a tablet upon her 
residence, commemorative of her genius. 

On the otlier side of the cemetery is the grave of 
Theodore Parker, well beloved on both sides of the 
ocean. 

Recently another distinguished American name 
is added to those inscribed upon the tombstones of 
this Florentine cemetery — that of Hildretli, tlie 



PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT FLORENCE, 179 

historian, and author of the " White Slave." He died 
in Florence in 1865. Mental labors, too long pro- 
tracted, occasioned softening of the brain, and re- 
duced him to a state of childish dependence. He 
left a wife to fight life's hard battle single-handed, 
and in the field of art ; also a son of promising tal- 
ents, who looks forward to making a name in his 
own land as an architect and landscape gardener. 

But our article would extend itself to a volume if 
we made even passing mention of all the illustrious 
dead whose ashes repose in this beautiful cemetery, 
and of whose lives a record full of interest might be 
given. 






^ 



OYEEFLOW OF THE AEXO— AET- 
1ST, A^D THE MAD SIXGEK 



Florence, July, 1865. 

Ix another article we make a brief allusion to 
the last occasion in which Piccolomini was con- 
jiu'ed out of her retirement, to delight the ears 
of Florence, and aid the sufferers from the inunda- 
tion. 

It was in November, 1864, that the capricious 
little Arno, which is always playing "fantastic 
tricks before high Heaven," spread dismay through 
the startled city, by one of its maddest pranks. 

The beauty of this slender stream, which pierces 
the heart of Florence, has been sung by poets and 
lauded by travellers. Mrs. Browning, as she views 
it from the lovely heights of Bellosguardo, speaks 
of — 

" Tlie river trailing like a silver cord."' 

Again, looking from her Casa Guidi windows, 

she says : 

(180) 



OVERFLOW OF THE ARNO. 181 



' I can but muse in hope upon the shore 

Of golden Arno as it shoots away 
Thro' Florence's heart, beneath her bridges four ; 

Bent bridges, seeming to strain ofE like bows, 
And tremble while the arrowing undertide 

Shoots on and cleaves the marble as it goes, 
And strikes up palace walls on either side." 



Bjron, too, speaks of the " Arno's silver sheen." 

"We have seen the Arno justify the poetic simile 
of a " silver cord^'^ when its waters were clear, and 
the full moon seemed melted in the gently flowing 
stream ; and we have seen the chameleon-like Arno 
look like a " golden cord " in the noonday sun, or 
when it reflected the countless lights flashing along 
its banks during the city's illumination for some 
grand festa ; and we have often seen this same 
changeful Arno degraded into a narrow, reddish, 
and decidedly muddy current, the very opposite of 
^^ silver ^"^ " golden^'' or ^^ jpicturesqiie ;'''' and not un- 
f requently we have beheld its waters almost entirely 
vanish, and bright-eyed Italian gamins gambol in 
its shallow bed. 

Twice within three years the Arno has suddenly 
swelled and overflowed its banks. The last inunda- 
tion, that of November, 1864, was the most serious 
that has occurred during the last twenty years. 

The little circle, of which we formed a part, was 
residing at the time in the Yia Dei Bardi — a 
street which Miss Evans has rendered famous by 



182 OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 

making it the home of her noble Romola. We 
chanced to be located very near where Romola is 
supposed to have lived, and within view of the hill 
where Tessa tended her hidden babes and watched 
for her false-hearted Tito. This Via Dei JBardi 
w^as one of the streets metamorphosed into a river 
by the inundation. 

It was on a quiet Sunday morning that we were 
startled by the tidings that the river had suddenly 
risen, and was overflowing its banks. An artist 
friend, who had crossed the nearest bridge an hour 
before, without anticipating any danger, was paying 
us a visit. lie started up in dismay, fearing that 
he might be cut off from his home, seized his hat, 
and hastily departed. We could well imagine there 
was some cause for his alarm when we saw him car- 
ried across the garden upon the back of a man who 
waded knee- deep through the water. 

Half an hour after, in rushed another friend, who 
had seen, from his villa on the Bellosguardo 
heights, the swollen river and our perilous situation, 
should the overflow be serious. He came with 
characteristic hospitality to urge us to take flight to 
his Bellosguardo home before we became prisoners. 
We could none believe that the tiny, harmless look- 
ing stream which we were accustomed to regard as 
a " silver^'' or " golden^'' or muddy " cord^'' could 



OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 183 

work any decided mischief, and refused the kind 
offer. Our. friend hurried away, and, as we watched- 
his departure, we found that the water had risen too 
high for him to be borne out upon a man's back. 
He was compelled to call in the assistance of a 
donkey, and made his way through the garden, 
seated in a rude harroccio, drawn by a donkey, 
whose legs were completely hidden by the reddit^h 
current. 

Our situation began to look a little threatening. 
The wisdom of following the undignified example 
of our friend, and making our escape seated on the 
floor of a furniture wagon, and dragged by an igno- 
ble donkey, was discussed. We concluded to wait 
a few hours longer. Before the time appointed for 
our final decision arrived, the power to choose was 
taken from us. 

The kitchen and billiard room were under water ; 
the concierge had locked the massive entrance por- 
tals of the palace, and fled ; the water had risen 
above their bolts and locks, above the windows of 
ikiQ piano terrena (ground floor) and was approach- 
ing those of the entresol. We had watched it 
ascend the whole first flight of stairs leading to our 
apartments, and it had gained the first step of the 
last flight. The street had been suddenly trans- 
formed into a river. Boats, sent by the authorities 



184 OVEBFLOW OF THE AUNO. 

for tlie relief of the poor, were passing rapidly up 
and down ; articles of furniture, beds, women and 
children, were being lifted out of the windows of the 
lower stories and carried awav. 

As for us, the windows of our entresol were 
strongly grated, and those of the apartments we 
occupied, on the floor above, were too distant fi-om 
the boats for escape to be possible ; we were liter- 
ally water-bound prisoners. 

Soon came a report that the authorities feared the 
parapets of the river would give way ; the destruc- 
tion must then be terrible, incalculable, many 
houses must inevitably be swept away, and numer- 
ous lives sacrificed. The excitement throughout 
the streets in peril may be better conceived than 
described. Though the month was Xovember, 
every window was open, the whole length of the 
Via Dei Bardi, and pale, anxious faces, peered 
out, watching the rising of the water ; and now and 
then a frightened voice cried to the gens d'o/nnes in 
the boats, and in piteous tones asked how great was 
the danger. 

Thus passed the day. About midnight the waters 
ceased to rise. During the night, to our inexpress- 
ible relief, they gradually subsided. The next day, 
however, boats still made their way along many of 
the flooded streets. 



OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 185 

As may be imaginedj the losses and sufferings of 
of the poor were very great. Florence displayed a 
charitable munificence, and contributions for their 
aid flowed in almost as rapidly and abundantly as 
the waters of the Arno when they caused the calam- 
ity. Charity, according to her custom in the pres- 
ent day, assumed the pleasant form of public enter- 
tainments, as a lure. At some of these, " stars that 
had set" rose again; among them Piccolomini 
shone forth with undiminished radiance: 

We were residing, at the time of the inundation 
in the Palazzo Sabatier — tlie home of Madame 
Ungker Sabatier, one of the greatest celebrities in 
Florence, the distinguished German jprima donna, 
the contemporary and rival of Malibran. 

This palace was built in 1400, and belonged at 
one time to the Bonaparte family. It was the resi- 
dence of the present Emperor I^apoleon Bonaparte. 
It passed from the hands of the Bonapartes into 
those of the Alamanni, thence to the Pitti family, 
and from the latter was purchased by Monsieur 
Sabatier. 

The principal drawing-room of this palace is 
certainly one of the most remarkable salons in Flor- 
ence. Its decorations are singularly beautiful and 
original. The entire wall is coyered with a. canvas 
overlaid with gold. Upon this golden ground life- 



186 OVEBFLOW OF TEE ARNO. 

sized pictures have been skilfully painted by the 
eminent French artists Bonquet and Papety. 

On one side we have Shakespeare — Shakespeare 
in his youth, by Papety ; beyond, Mozart standing 
before his piano ; and further on, Don Giovanni, 
with the fair deluded ones, and the ghost in the 
background. These paintings were all executed by 
Papety. 

Xext we see Dante, led by the spirit of Virgil, 
and above, Francesca di Rimini boi-ne to heaven. 
This group is by Bonquet. 

Farther on, we behold Paphael, standing between 
Mephistopheles and Faust, who is embracing Mar- 
garet. 

Then comes Eaphael, leaning against an easel 
which holds the unfinished picture of the Madonna 
delta Seggiola ; above, a half -nude female figure, 
either representing Fame or La Foniarina, holds a 
crown over the head of Eaphael. One cannot help 
being struck by the ^ose of Raphael, which is sin- 
gularly French / and even his face, though the re- 
semblance to his portrait has been preserved, is 
Frenchified in a wonderful manner. 

ISText appears Michael Angelo, standing between 
two of his most celebrated statues, conspicuous for 
their muscular development. 

Moliere, unfinished, completes the distinguished 



OVERFLOW OF TEE ARNO. 187 

assemblage. The four last-mentioned groups are by 
Bonqnet, who died while he was painting the Mol- 
iere. It is a singular coincidence, that Papety also 
died before his work was completed. 

Bonqnet left a young daughter, who has been 
lovingly adopted by Madame Sabatier, an enthusias- 
tic admirer of genius. This gifted girl, at an early 
age, testified that the rich inheritance of her father's 
talents had descended to her. She has now become 
a highly accomplished artiste, and is at this moment 
completing a painting which will fill the one space 
on the golden ground left vacant by her father's 
death. Thus the hand of the daughter replaces, 
and it is said most ably, the death-stricken hand of 
the father. 

The mantelpiece of this artistic drawing room is 
particularly :worthy of mention. It may better be 
called a monument to Fourier than a mantelpiece 
— a monument of white marble, executed by the 
French sculptor Ottin. A bust of the great phil- 
anthropist Fourier looks down upon hasso rilieve 
illustrative of his peculiar views, explained by in- 
scriptions in golden letters. On either side, beneath 
the mantel-shelf, a couple of lovely children, life 
size, delight the eyes with their innocent and elo- 
quent beauty. 

M. Sabatier is a St. Simonian and a Fourierist — » 



188 OVERFLOW OF THE ARXO. 

an erudite scholar, an able writer, a painter of ac- 
knowledged talent, and a most eloquent conversa- 
tionalist. 

Madame Sabatier retired from her profession 
some twenty years ago. An undying passion for 
her glorious art daily evinces itself in her quick ap- 
preciation of youthful talent, and her laAdsh gene- 
rosity in its cultivation. She devotes the larger 
portion of her time to training pupils gratis, for the 
opera or concert room — especially pupils whose 
limited means would have forbidden the culture 
of their gifts, save for her unmeasured liberality. 
TVlien she has the good fortune to be thrown into 
contact with genius of a liigh order, her exertious 
to promote its development have no bounds; she 
will take the pupil to her own home, treat her as 
a daughter, train her ^vith unwearied patience, 
scarcely eat, scarcely sleep, because of her great 
deliojht in her work of love. And when she has 
fitted the neophyte to encounter her public ordeal, 
the loving hands of the noble instructress spare no 
pains in smoothing the rough paths which even the 
most successful artist must tread, and in plucking 
awav the thorns which ever srrow amons: the roses 
with whicli the world crowns its favorites. 

Several of Madame Sabatier's pupils have 



OVERFLOW OF THE ABNO. 189 

achieved great triumphs, and hold positions of 
jprime donne of the first rank. 

This generous, large-hearted, highly cultivated 
artiste, at sixty, is full of enthusiasm, vigor, anima- 
tion, and energy, and retains much of the freshness 
and buoyancy of her youth. She has not the faint- 
est comprehension of that vanity which tempts 
women of lesser renown to conceal their ages. The 
year of her birth is inscribed beneath her portrait. 
That of her husband is written beneath his, though 
he is twenty years her junior. In spite of this dis- 
parity their tastes are so well adapted, their minds 
so thoroughly congenial, and their lives so full of 
active goodness, that their union seems to have been 
one of rare felicity. 

The subject of musicians calls to mind a very 
singular instance of natural musical capacity that 
has recently awakened our interest. Tobia Sernesi 
was a granatajo, or vender of berries, about the 
streets of Florence. His superb voice attracted the 
attention of some lovers of music, who, after having 
afforded him a rather hurried and impromptu prep- 
aration, procured his appearance, in opera, at one of 
the minor theatres in Florence. In spite of his 
lack of culture and musical skill, his voice, a pure 
haritone, was so magnificent, that he became very 
popular, and after a few seasons was engaged at the 



190 OVERFLOW OF TEE ABNO. 

Pagliano. For some time lie has completely lost 
Lis mind. AYe have never been able to learn to 
what cause his mental derangement is attributed. 
He may often be seen wandering about the streets, 
fantastically dressed, in Zouave trousers and jacket, 
witli a red fez upon his head, singing snatches of 
opera music, looking wildly about him, and 
making the most extraordinary gesticulations. His 
sad-looking wife invariably f ollow^s him, at a short 
distance, always keeping him in sight, and hasten- 
ing to the rescue whenever he gets into 2cn.j diffi- 
culty. 

Strange to say, when he enters the theatre he be- 
comes perfectly reasonable — that is, in regard to 
all that concerns his vocation. He goes through re- 
hearsals with precision, enacts his role at night re- 
spectably (his talents as an actor are not remark- 
able), sings the music correctly, and makes the 
proper entrances and exits without betraying any 
eccentricity. He is even capable of studying new 
characters, and of personating them, quite as well 
as before his misfortune ; and yet out of the theatre 
he is absolutely insane. 

Here is a singular study open to the psychologist 
— one which we hope will attract attention and re- 
ceive investigation. 



FEDI THE SCULPTOE. 



Flokencb, July, 1865. 

" Have yon seen Fedi's gronp ? " is one of the 
first questions the lover of art asks of a stranger now 
visiting Floren ce. Fedi's group is the new marvel of 
this beautiful city. Indeed, Fedi himself excites in 
us no measured amount of wonder. lie presents the 
rare instance of a man who springs suddenly, with 
one gigantic bound, from absolute obscurity to the 
topmost round of the ladder of fame. 

A few years ago Pio Fedi, the Florentine sculptor, 
was comparatively unknown. He had conceived, 
studied, and worked — had executed numerous stat- 
ues, but none of them compelled recognition by the 
unmistakable impress of genius. 

Fedi commenced life as an engraver. A disease 
of theeyesrendered.it necessary for him to abandon 
this profession. He had reached his twenty-fourth 
year before he first took clay in his uncertain hands, 
and received his delightful conviction that the powers 

X191) 



192 FEDI THE SCULPTOR, 

of the sculptor lay dormant Trithin his soul. Earnest, 
yet unexpansive in his nature ; quiet, even shrink- 
ing in his manners, he worked almost in seclusion, 
unaided, unregarded. 

The conception of his group, representing the 
enlevement of Polyxena by Pyrrhus, appears to have 
been an inspiration as sudden as it was genuine. 
Fedi shut himself in his studio and toiled incessantly 
to create in clay the superb ideal that existed Tvdthin 
his mind. Models, and the best that could be found, 
were indispensable. He was poor, and to hoard up 
his narrow means that he might obtain these models 
he was often forced to deprive himself of the neces- 
saries of life — sometimes his only food was bread 
and cheese and salads ; but no privation which the 
prosecution of his work demanded was too severe. 
At the end of fourteen months the clay was com- 
pleted. Pyrrhus has slain Polites, one of the sons 
of Hecuba, and bears away her youngest daughter, 
Polyxena, to immolate her upon the tomb of Achilles. 

The majestic masterpiece won almost instantane- 
ous recognition from the ablest judges. Crowds 
flocked to the studio, whose doors until then had so 
seldom unclosed to admit the stranger. Some raved 
about the grandeur of the conception, some were 
enchanted with the finished beauty of the execution, 
some were amazed at the wonderful anatomy ; but 



FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 193 

all united in declaring that the entire group was a 
sublime triumph of art. 

So grand a work must at once be perpetuated 
in marble; that was the public verdict. A com- 
mittee was formed to raise a subscription for the 
purchase of the marble and the payment of work- 
men. Prince Ferdinand Strozzi was the president 
of this committee, and Peruzzi its secretary. Thir- 
teen thousand dollars was the sum required. Only 
eleven thousand were raised and Fedi himself sub- 
scribed the two remaining thousands. 

The cost of a pedestal was furnished by the muni- 
cipality. 

Thus the gifted artist, far from profiting by his 
work, was compelled to advance a large sum from 
his own slender means to ensure its execution in 
marble. 

Our readers are doubtless aware that the sculptor 
moulds his design in clay, and there his labor ordin- 
arily ends. After the clay has been cast in plaster, 
skilful workmen chisel the marble by measurement, 
and it is seldom touched by the sculptor. But Fedi 
worked constantly upon the marble himself, leading 
his workmen, and finishing all the delicate details. 
He was in love with his glorious creation, and ex- 
perienced the most enthusiastic delight in beholding, 
and feeling it grow beneath his own hands. 
9 



194 FEDI THE SCULPTOR, 

At the expiration of eight years the stiipendoiia 
group stood in marble. 

It has been beautifully said, that clay is the hirth, 
jplaster the death, and raarhle the resurrection of 
sculpture. No one can watch the three phases through 
which a statue passes, without being forcibly struck 
by the truth of the comparison. The design in clay 
gives us a strong sense of its intrinsic beauty and ex- 
pression ; we see it in plaster and it looks dull, pro- 
saic, lifeless; but in marble it re-awakens into 
higher, more imposing, more spiritual beauty. 

The committee which Prince Strozzi headed stipu- 
lated that Fedi should not repeat his group, in order 
that Florence might be assured the sole honor of its 
possession. 

The Duke of Manchester offered to purchase it 
from the sculptor for five thousand pounds sterling, 
but his offer was declined. 

An ex-mayor of ]^ew York, recently visited 
Fedi's studio, and was so much struck by the mag- 
nificence of the colossal group, that he offered twen- 
ty-five thousand dollars to have it repeated, to 
adorn the New York Central Park. 

Only a few days later, a most enterprising gentle- 
man from Eoston, on beholding the group, offered 
to pay Fedi fifty thousand dollars if he would repeat 
it for this same Central Park. Our Boston friend 



FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 195 

proposed to build a pavilion over the group in the 
Park, and charge a small price for admission, which 
would soon repay the original cost. 

Fedi's calm, pleasant face glowed with gratifica- 
tion when the last munificent offer was communi- 
cated to him, and he said with animation, " I will 
make an appeal to the Committee, and see if it will 
grant me permission — it may — I cannot tell." We 
urged him to make the appeal without delay, and 
if it be not rejected, America will be enriched by a 
work of art which Florentine judges have pro- 
nounced the most superb of modern times. 

The subject of the group is taken both from the 
^neid of Yirgil and the Hecuba of Euripides. The 
sculptor has concentrated into one separate actions 
of the poem and drama. 

This is the story : Achilles having slain Troilus, 
one of the beloved sons of Priam and Hecuba, the 
mother becomes frantic with grief, and determines 
to revenge herself by means of stratagem. She 
makes known to Paris that Achilles has solicited the 
hand of her daughter Polyxena, and that they are 
to be united in the temple of Apollo, and plans 
with Paris the capture and death of the invincible 
hero. Paris chooses the bravest of his Phrygian 
soldiers, and consults with them in the temple. 
When Achilles enters to receive the hand of 



196 FEDI THE SCULPTOR 

Polyxena, they rush forth, surround, and slay him. 
As soon as Troy was taken, Pyrrhus, the son of Achil- 
les, entered the palace of Priam, to take vengeance 
upon the murderer of his father. He slew Polites 
in the presence of his parents, and completed the 
sacrifice by killing Priam upon the dead body of his 
son. Thus says Yirgil. 

The tradition further declares that Pyrrhus, after 
slaying Priam and Polites, immolated upon the tomb 
of Achilles the beautiful Polyxena, innocent cause 
of the great hero's death. 

The sculptor has supposed that the seizure of Pol- 
yxena took place immediately after the murder of 
her father and brother. Thus the situation (if we 
may use a theatrical expression) is stronger and more 
thrilling than described by Yirgil or Euripides. 

The action of the different figures composing the 
group conveys the idea that Polyxena has been 
defended by Polites and by Hecuba, and that Pyr- 
rhus has snatched her first from the hands of her 
brother and then from those of her mother. Polites 
lies at the feet of Pyrrhus in death agony, yet vainly 
endeavoring to rise. Hecuba kneels, almost pros- 
trate, with her arms lifted despairingly towards her 
child, as though making a last frantic effort to save 
her. The delicate, maidenly form of the terrified 
Polyxena is encircled by the strong arms of the inex- 



FEDI THE 80ULPTOR. 197 

orable Pyrrhus, wlio is bearing her off to the sacri- 
fice. 

Luigi Delatre, in his pamphlet upon the most de- 
sirable locality for the group, says, " the style of Fedi 
is one entirely new to us, and does not resemble the 
somewhat material style of Giambologna, nor the 
conventional style of Canova, nor the rather hard 
style of Bartolini, but proceeds directly from the 
study of the works of Phidias, and is the immediate 
fruit of the progress we have recently made in the 
recognition of the early Greek statues. This group 
is the first evidence of a new era in sculpture, and 
as such will form an epoch in the history of art." 

The exact locality which the group is destined to 
adorn has not yet been decided. Facing the Palazzo 
Yecchio are three noble arcades, tastefully decorated. 
They were erected by Orcagna, in 1375. At one 
period they served for the town hall or exchange; 
now they shelter an imposing assemblage of celebra- 
ted statues. It is the earnest desire of Fedi that his 
group should be admitted to one of these arcades — ■ 
the Loggia dei Lanzi. The choice of this conspicuous 
and most desirable situation has excited the jealousy, 
and we may add the decided opposition, of other 
Florentine sculptors. 

If this felicitous locality, enriched by the works of 
the most distinguished ancient and modern sculptors, 



198 FEDI TEE SCULPTOR 

should be selected, Fedi's group will be seen in com- 
pany with works thoroughly in harmony. Ajax 
dying recalls Homer's Iliad. Hercules and Xestor 
bring to mind the "Fnries" of Sophocles, eyen as the 
rape of Polyxena recalls the ^neid of Virgil and 
the Hecuba of Euripides. Xear, we haye the rape 
of the Sabines, by John of Bologna ; the world-re- 
nowned Perseus, of Cellini ; Judith slaying Holof er- 
nes, by Donatelli, etc., etc. 

The Piazza Grand Duca, or Piazza della Signoria, 
npon which these arcades stand, is an open air mu- 
seum of art. One of the most striking statues by 
which it is adorned is the equestrian statue of 
Cosimo I. by John of Bologna. Xear the palace 
is the fountain of Xeptune, by Anmianato — a co- 
lossal Xeptune in a car drawn by horses, with 
nymphs, satyrs^ and tritons sporting around. On 
one side of the palace is Hercules slaying Cacus, by 
Banchinelli ; on the other, the celebrated colossal 
figure of Dayid, by Michael Angelo. 

To return to the group of Fedi. It was stipu- 
lated in his contract with the committee that his 
group should be cut out of one entire block of white 
marble, and that the marble should be brought 
either from Carrara or Serravezza. The block has 
proyed wonderfully free from all imperfection — 
a fact which cannot be ascertained until after the 



FEDI THE SCULPTOR. 199 

work of chiselling has made considerable prog- 
ress. The marble was brought from Carrara. 

Carrara and Serravezza are the two principal vil- 
lages of the Apennines. 

I have already given a description of this most 
intetesting, picturesque, as well as quaint little vil- 
lage — Serravezza. 




ADELAIDE EISTOEI, AXD PICCO- 
LOMIXI. 



" August, 1865. 

Amoxg the many celebrities who have made their 
homes in Florence is the renowned Italian actress, 
Adelaide Historij Marchioness del Grillo. The 
golden harvest reaped by her genius has reared, np- 
on the picturesque banks of the Arno, close to the 
beautiful Cascine, one of the most magnificent of mo- 
dern palaces. It is built of brown stone, and bears 
her name. The interior is lavishly decorated with su- 
perb frescoes by Agnani, who holds a prominent 
rank^ among Italian painters. The subjects repre- 
sented are scenes from celebrated plays — several 
from Shakespeare. She has erected another palace 
in Paris. 

Ristori has thrown double lustre upon the stage, 
by her resplendent talents and the shining example 
of her pure life. Ennobled by marriage, though less 
than bv nature, she moves amonor Italy's uobilitv, a 

(200) 



ADELAIDE RISTOBI AND PIGCOLOMINL 201 

proud matron, reverenced by her husband and chil- 
dren, and worshipped by the crowd. 

Her striking beauty needs no heightening at the 
hands of art; it is as remarkable in the drawing- 
room as upon the stage. Her figure is imposing ; 
her eyes are large, and brilliantly dark ; her hair is 
abundant, and of Oriental blackness ; her brow is 
queenly; her mouth flexible and expressive. Her 
bearing is chacacterized by native grace and dignity, 
.and, perhaps, by a slight touch of hauteur. 

Though she has amassed a large fortune, we learn 
that she does not propose abandoning her profes- 
sion, and converting the laurels she has not ceased 
to gather, during twenty-five or thirty years, into a 
couch of repose. 

Her last performance in Florence took place on 
the 12th of May, 1865, the evening before the great 
Dante Sex-centenary Festival. Eossf and Salvini, 
the most eminent of Italian actors, the Italian re- 
presentatives of Shahesj)eare, were compelled, by 
the imperative demands of the public, to interrupt 
their engagements in JSTaples and Milan, to meet 
Eistori in Florence. For the first time, the three 
brilliant luminaries shone upon the same stage. 
The play selected was Sihdo Pellico's tragedy of 
Francesca da Rimini. The performance took place 



202 ADELAIDE RI8T0BI AND PICCOLOMINL 

at the Kicolini Theatre, and elicited boundless 
enthusiasm. 

Histori perilled her popularity in Italy, when she 
acted in French to gratify a Parisian audience. It 
is said that the Italians openly avowed their jealous 
disapproval. We had the gratification of seeing 
her personate her first role in the French language 
— that of " Beatrix " in " The Madonna of Art," writ- 
ten expressly for her by Messrs. '•'Scribe and Se- 
gouveP The rendition was full of pathos and gran- 
deur, full of archness, fascination, and reality. The 
heroine is an actress, a Madonna of purity, who 
sacrifices all the selfish impulses of her loving heart 
to the glory of her profession. It is said that the 
authors purposely depicted Ristori's own character. 
Her success was triumphant. What command of 
the French language she has obtained, may be 
judged from the fact that her hypercritical, and by 
no means indulgent, Parisian audience applauded 
her to the echo, and even found a charm in the 
slight accent which she liad not wholly conquered. 

The illusion of her acting has since been in some 
measure destroyed to us personally, by our learning 
that she belongs to a school of art which we were 
never able to comprehend. We were told that it is 
not necessary for her to feel in order to personate 
feelingly ; it is not necessary that her own heart 



ADELAIDE BISTOBI AND PIGCOLOMINL 203 

and eyes should be full, for her to wring the hearts, 
and draw tears from the eyes of others. It is said 
that sometimes after the grandest, most thrilling 
bursts of pathos, when sobs resounded on every side, 
and tears had been conjured into the eyes, even of 
the undemonstrative, Ristori, while her face was 
concealed from the audience, has found great diver- 
sion in exciting the merriment of some friend at 
the side scenes, by the most irresistibly comic looks 
and gestures. If this be true, and we prefer to 
give it the benefit of a doubt, it proves that the 
gifted actress' heart may be in her art^ and not be 
in her role. 

Another highly distinguished artist, who has lent 
an additional charm to Florence, by making the 
" City of Flowers " her home, is Piccolomini, Mar- 
chioness of Gaetani. We had last seen her smiling 
a witching farewell (which had almost the sweet- 
ness of a closer adieu) at the Academy of Music 
in ]^ew York ; but her face was not less lively, her 
manners were not less captivating when our ac- 
quaintance was renewed in Florence in the autumn 
of 1864, at her palace in the street '^ of the angels," 
{via degli angli) ; an appropriate name to designate 
the locality of a songstress. 

She had been married four years, and three cher- 
ub faces gave brightness to the room. 



204 ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL 

The life of an artist has ever a touch of romance ; 
but Piccolomini's history is enriched by a more than 
ordinary mingling of the romantic element. 

She belongs to an ancient and noble Italian fam- 
ily — a family which boasts of having had a Pope 
and a Cardinal among its representatives. The 
branch from which our artist Piccolomini sprang 
chanced to be very restricted in its worldly posses- 
sions — not at all an uncommon circumstance among 
the Italian nobility. Piccolomini evinced a passion 
for music and the drama in her very babyhood. 
She was still a child when she conceived the project 
of studying seriously for the opera, that she might 
at once redeem the fortunes of her family, and en- 
joy the exercise of her gifts. She met with the 
amount of opposition from her proud relatives and 
aristocratic friends which was to be anticipated; 
but the force of that opposition had just as little 
power as might have been expected, when brought 
to bear upon the promptings of true genius. At 
sixteen, she made her debut at Sienna, where her 
family resided. Her success was decided, though 
she could hardly have been called brilliant. She 
studied with zeal and enthusiasm, and made rapid 
progress in the knowledge of her art. 

Musicians have never been willing to award her 
a high rank as a vocalist. Iler voice has no great 



ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PIGCOLOMINL 205 

compass and no startling power, but we find com- 
pensation for what it lacks, in its varied and won- 
derful expression, in its melting sweetness, its 
ringing mirth, its sympathetic magnetism. She 
sings with her eyes, she sings with her eloquent 
hands; her whole frame is fermented with the 
spirit of song, and quivers, heightens, or bends, re- 
sponsive to the melody that gushes from her lips. 
She literally and marvellously illustrates the words 
of the poet : 

" Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest, 
For her looks sing, too ; she modulates her gestures on the tune. 

And her mouth stirs with the song-hke song ; and when the notes are finest, 
' Tis her eyes that shoot out vocal hght, and seem to sweU them on." 

But if musical critics will not admit that her 
singing is "great," no one can deny that her acting is 
of a superlative order. 

During an engagement which . she was fulfilling 
at Rome, an incident occurred which gave coloring 
to the rest of her life. One evening her attention 
was involuntarily attracted to a young gentleman, 
who always sat close to the stage, apparently ab- 
sorbed in the performance. Night after night he 
occupied the same seat ; he sat motionless, entranced, 
as one in a dream — never addressing any one near 
him, never glancing at the audience, never moving 
his eyes from the face of Piccolomini. And night 



20G ADELAIDE BISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL 

after night, when she entered upon the scene, her 
eyes nnconsciously turned to see if that well-known 
seat was filled — and filled by him. Soon she forgot 
the audience ; she thought but of him, sang only to 
him. She had not the remotest idea who he was ; 
she had no definite presentiment that they would 
ever meet ; but he was her inspiration, he was her 
^ublio — there was no other public for her when he 
was present. 

Some weeks later, while she was paying a morn- 
ing visit to a noble lady, a young gentleman en- 
tered the room, whom Piccolomini at once recog- 
nized. The lady presented her nephew. The con- 
fusion and more than wonted timidity of the youth- 
ful vocalist were inexplicable. 

After this, Piccolomini and the young Marquis di 
Gaetani often met in society. She quickly became 
aware that she ha^ given him her heart unasked. 
Her native pride and her maidenly delicacy ren- 
dered her so fearful that he might divine her prefer- 
ence — a preference which he had never solicited — 
that she treated him with marked coldness. He, 
meantime, worshipped the glorious star at a distance, 
never daring to dream that its light could be shed 
on him apart from the crowd. Though he lived but 
in her presence, though he hung upon her words, 
though he followed her from city to city, he clier- 



ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PIGGOLOMINL 207 

ished no hope that he could ever rob the public of 
this idol and call it his own, and his lips remained 
sealed. 

Years passed on, and Piccolomini received and 
refused the most brilliant offers of marriage, and 
even her intimate friends imagined that her heart 
was untouched. She was in love with her art, they 
thought ; there was no room in her soul for any 
other passion. 

She appeared in London, and achieved a triumph 
that far surpassed all former successes. In Amer- 
ica, also, she created a genuine ficrore. Wherever 
she travelled she was accompanied by her family — 
her father, mother, sister, and brother surrounded 

her, and they knew that the foot of a favored lover 

« 
never entered the magic circle. 

During her visit to America she accidentally 
learned that the young Marquis was about to be 
married. The shock of this intelligence was so se- 
vere, so violent, that it broke the ice beneath which 
she had hidden her great love, and, in her anguish 
and despair, she betrayed her secret to a friend. 
This friend at on(}e occupied herself in discovering 
whether the report of the Marquis' engagement was 
true, and found that it was a mere rumor. A mys- 
tery hangs over her next steps ; but it is very cer- 
tain that Piccolomini no sooner returned to Europe 



208 ADELAIDE BIBTOBI AND PICCOLOMINL 

than the Marquis became her accepted lover. The 
mysterious mediumship of the confidante is more 
than suspected. 

In a very brief period after her betrothal, the 
lovely vocalist laid her laurels at the feet of her lov- 
er, and exchanged her profession — its excitement, its 
inspiration, its glories — for a wif e^s devotion and a 
mother's joys. 

Few women, famed or unfamed, are so bount- 
eously blessed. She has a charming -home, the most 
tender and devoted of husbands, three lovely chil- 
dren, admiring friends without number ; sheh as 
youth, health, wealth, beauty ; but — but — it is use- 
less to deny a fact that is so apparent : though she is 
happy, though no one can doubt her happiness, there 
are moments when she pines for her artist life ; a 
sense of listlessness and of overwhelming idleness 
oppresses her ; her everyday existence does not rouse 
and stimulate her mind ; does not meet the require- 
ments of her artistic nature. She is often the vic- 
tim of ennui / often grows dull, as with a surfeit of 
happiness. When her talents are called into play 
for charities, she suddenly revives; a new soul 
seems breathed into her inanimate frame ; once 
more she is inspired ; she lives ; she is the Piccolo- 
mini of old. 

A few seasons ago, her former manager, Mr. Lum- 



ADELAIDE RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINL 200 

ley, was in great tribulation, and on the brink of 
ruin. Piccolomini persuaded her husband to take 
her to London, and to allow her to play an engage- 
ment for the benefit of her old director. There can be 
no question of the double happiness she experienced 
— the joy of serving an old and esteemed friend, 
and the delight of once more revelling in the exer- 
cise of her great gifts. Speak of that engagement, 
and her blue eyes fill witli a lustre that rarely 
illumines them, except when she is singing ; her 
whole face beams, her lips grow tremulous, and her 
words are broken by suppressed sighs. 

The last time she appeared in public in Florence 
was in Ts ovember. 1S6-1, at a concert given in aid of 
the sufferers from the inundation. 

She has always been subject to stage fright, and 
this terrible nightmare is increased by even a brief 
retirement from the stage. On the o(;casion of 
which we speak, when she was summoned to ap- 
pear, she treml)led visibly, from head to foot. She 
could scarcely breathe, and was seized with a violent 
palpitation of the lieart. When she entered upon the 
stage her agitation was so overpowering, that she 
could hardly stand, and she had to grasp a piano, 
which stood near, for support. She was to sing 
Donizetti's '' Affandomio,^^ and to be accompanied 
on the harp l)y her master, tlie distinguished Rom- 



210 ADELAIDE RISTORI AJiD PICCOLOJfm. 

anelli, of the Pergola. Almost with the first notes 
she uttered her terror ran i shed The blood mshed 
back to her pallid cheeks and lips ; her eves flashed 
and dilated ; she stood erect, snblinie in her inspired 
beauty. She sang with vehement passion ; she had 
forgotten herself ; she had forgotten all but her di- 
yine art ; the music in her hand was crumpled, 
nearly torn, by her nervous fingers ; her sotd came 
down rato her body, and almost grew visible to mor- 
tal eyes. 

Her husband sat behind the scenes, not far from 
our own seat, and where we could watch his face. 

It was a picture worth studying. Even so he 
must have Lx>ked in those days in Rome, when his 
eyes were fastened upon that unknown Piccolomini 
who was now his wife. 

I have already given an account of the frightful 
inmidation, and of the sufferers for whose relief 
Piccolomini was drawn from her seclusion; and her 
noble-hearted charity. 



THE BEAUTIFUL HOEROE. 



A FLOEENTmE LEGEND. 



Every one knows that Florence, the gem of Italian 
cities, is encompassed for miles by grand old villas, 
dotting lovely valleys and cresting undulating hills. 
Linked to many of these ancient villas are strange 
legends — liistories of wrong and revenge, of shame 
and grief, of heroic endm-ance and cruel martyrdom. 
One of the most startling of these narratives is asso- 
ciated with the villa Salviati, on the road to the pic- 
turesque hill of Fiesole, a little beyond the villa 
Careggi, where Lorenzo the Magnificent lived and 
died. 

The superb villa Salviati is now owned by singers 
of world-wide fame, and as one gazes upon the 
handsome portraits that adorn its walls, it is from 
the noble features of the Italian lyric queen that 
the eye turns to rest upon a face full of bitterness 
and woe — a face that has the look of one unloved, 
yet capable of love, and of desperate deeds through 

(311) 



212 THE BEAU TIF i^L HOBEOB. 

that love — tlie portrait of the Lady Yeronica, a 
daughter of the royal house of Massa, the wife of 
Jacopo Salviati, Duke of San Guliano, to whom the 
Tilla belonged. 

Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, 
there was a grand festival celebrated at this magnifi- 
cent villa, the last ever given there by a Salviati. 
The host, then a dashing cavalier in the first flush of 
reckless manhood, was a few years younger than his 
wife. She could hardly have been thirty, but the 
disparity of their ages was rendered striking by the 
gay insouciance of Jacopo Salviati's handsome, fur- 
rowless face, and the stern intensity, the wistful 
eagerness of gaze, that was wearing sharp lines in 
the countenance of the Lady Yeronica. 

It was during this feast that one of the spies 
whom she employed to watch her husband's move- 
ments delivered to her a small package. The eve- 
ning was far advanced. Some of the guests had de- 
parted; others lingered upon, the threshold, to enjoy 
the glorious panorama revealed by the rising moon. 
The Duchess could hardly conceal her impatience to 
have them s^one. She started when the horse of the 
Diike was brought to the door, and her knitted brow 
grew visibly darker. Salviati, with smiling suavity, 
made his apologies to the remaining guests; the 



THE BEAUTIFUL EOBROR. 213 

Grand Duke, his master, required his immediate 
presence. 

" The Grand Duke has need of you at this hour ? " 
the Duchess whispered, or rather hisspd out between 
her closed teeth. 

" Why not ? " answered Salviati, aloud. " All my 
hours are at his command." 

He bowed courteously, sprang into the saddle, 
and waved his hand in graceful adieu as he rode 
rapidly from the door. 

Even while he was speaking, the lady's fingers 
clutched the little package she had hidden in her 
pocket, and as she forced her white lips into a sort of 
smile, and strung unmeaning words together in idle 
talk, she could not relax her hold. 

The last guest turned to depart ; then, without a 
second's pause, the casket tightly grasped in her 
trembling hands, she flew up the broad stair to her 
sumptuous chamber. A child, sleeping beneath a 
canopy of cerulean silk, was wakened by her sud- 
den entrance, and lifted up its little face, flushed 
with the roses of sleep, and watched her with great, 
wondering blue eyes, like his father's. She pressed 
the spring of the morocco case, and shivering, gasp- 
ing, gazed wildly upon something within. It was a 
countenance of child-like loveliness, shining out 
from amid the wealth of loosened tresses, as through 



:^1^ THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR, 

a clond which the STmset had turned to gold. The 
eyes were blue, and had that pleadingly pathetic 
expression which told they had early been familiar 
with son'ow, though they seemed formed only to 
brighten with joy. And there was the long, slender 
thi'oat, slender to a fault, which she had so often 
heard Salviati admire as an especial chai-m in 
womanhood. The Duchess raised her eyes ; a mirror 
opposite reflected her own dark, pain-distorted face, 
her sunken, lusti*eless eyes, her thick, ungraceful 
throat. TTith a look c>f passionate despau*. and a 
fierce ciw, she flung down the miniature and stamped 
upon it, and tossed her arms above her head, and 
wheeling round as she staggered towards the bed, 
suddenly faced the amazed l>\v. 

'• Oh. mamma, you frighten me I ** he cried ; '* oh, 
don't I How ugly you look, mamma I " 

The word " ugly *' had scarcely passed the child's 
lips, when she struck him upon the mouth. 

" tTgly I t^gly ' Do I not know it ? Do I not see 
it i Must even my own child tell me so ? " 

Then she wept violently, and caught the boy in 
her arms, and caressed him ^vith a sort of savage re- 
morse imtil his sobs were hushed. 



In the street called Via del Pebi^^tri, near the 
church San ArrJjro^io^ stands the house of Giustino 



THE BEA UTIFUL HOBNOB. 215 

Canacci, one of the most wealthy, most highly hon- 
ored, of Florentine merchants. 

It is past midnight, but Caterina Canacci sits in 
the great salon, in the attitude of one listening for 
distant sounds — sits with an air of expectation. 
She goes to the window, and looks out, and listens. 
The moon has disappeared, the heavens have grown 
dark, threatening one of those sudden storms so com- 
mon in Italy. She moves to a door at the further 
end of the apartment, aiid bends her head to catch 
the sound from within — the low, regular breathing 
of one asleep. She softly opens the door, and though 
the taper burns faintly, it gives light enough to show 
the benignant features of an old man — the white 
locks lying upon the pillow, the mild lips parted 
with a half smile, almost the smile of a sleeping 
child, it speaks such absence of care, such sweetness 
of repose. 

Caterina closes the door noiselessly, for she has 
heard a light signal, and flits across the spacious 
apartment, down the great stair, cautiously lifts 
the chains of the hall door, and draws back the 
bolt. A cavalier enters, and is joyfully greeted. 

" Jacopo, how bravely you are attired to-night ! " 
she exclaimed with child-like admiration, examining 
his gala dress. " Come in, step softly ; he has only 
just fallen asleep." 



216 THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR 

Chains and bolts are replaced, and the lovers pass 
up the stair, and enter the apartment Caterina has 
just quitted. They sit side by side, and while the 
visitor twines his fingers in and out among the loos- 
ened tangles of those soft, bright locks, Caterina 
prattles to him. Some chance word has touched a 
chord that has opened her heart, and she is telling of 
grinding poverty, of hard struggles, of the goodness 
of Giustino Canacci, who came one day to bid her 
wear his name with a ring, that he might save her 
and her kindred from further misery. She loved 
him for his goodness, she said, and then sorrowfully 
added, Was she not wrong to permit this gay caval- 
ier to visit her so often, and very wrong to have given 
him her word to hide those visits from her husband ? 
Besides, how little she knew of the cavalier himself . 
IS'othing but that his name was " Jacopo," and that 
he looked the noblest gentleman she ever saw. 
And how had he come to notice her, or she him? 
Only from seeing each other day after day, as she 
sat at the casement. She had not meant to drop 
the flower — indeed she had not — which fell from 
her hands one day, and which he picked up and 
gained admission to return; though, after all, he 
did not give it back, as he well knew. How strange 
that, from that hour to this, he had come so often, 
and yet she knew nothing about him ! 



THE BEA UTIFCfL HORROR. 217 

"Except that he loves you!" replied he, fer- 
vently. 

Caterina put a rosy finger on his lips, and with 
the other hand pointing to the chamber where the 
old man slept, answered reproachfully : " I am his, 
you know; and you promised never to utter words 
which I could not hear without a blush, or remem- 
ber without remorse." 

The sky had grown darker and darker, and at 
that moment a sudden peal of thunder shook the 
old mansion to its base ; then came the quick flash 
and the crashing peal, followed by another and an- 
other as violent. 

In the silence that ensued, a feeble voice could 
be heard calling " Caterina ! Caterina ! " and there 
was a sound as of one rising from bed, and groping 
about the chamber with feeble steps. 

Caterina started up, trembling helplessly ; but the 
cavalier, with presence of mind, extinguished the 
lamp. 

" Caterina ! Caterina ! " and the advancing steps 
were still heard. 

A vivid flash, for a second, flooded the whole 
room as with daylight, and they saw the old man 
standing, like a spectre, in the doorway, as plainly 
as he saw Caterina, pale and cowering, and the 
handsome cavalier bending aver her. 
10 



218 THE BEAUTIFUL HOBROR. 

" Caterina ! Cateriua ! " almost wailed the old 
man ; " I did not think thou conldst be false to me. 
Why hast thou done this ? " 

The tone was one of agony, but not of reproach. 

Another flash revealed the three again. The old 
man staggered forward with one arm outstretched 
toward the cavalier, as though trying to speak. All 
was dark again, but they heard a hea^-}^ fall, and 
the next flash showed Giustino Canacci prostrate on 
the ground. 

Caterina darted towards him, and fell on her 
knees. '* Signor ! Signor ! " she sobbed out, " I 
have erred, but I have not wronged thee, as thou 
thinkest. I am not false ! Pity me ! pity me ! " 

The Duke had lighted the lamp. He raised the 
old man in his strong arms and bore him to the 
bed. Canacci was not insensible ; he looked in- 
quiringly^ not angrily, into the stranger's face, and 
murmured feebly, ^' Who art thou ? " 

Jacopo did not answer. 

The dying eyes turned to the weeping Caterina. 
" Poor lamb ! if I took thee to my fold, it was be- 
cause I knew it would not be for long — it was 
only to shelter thee." 

" And oh ! how ill I have repaid thee ; but only 
in hiding that Jacopo came to see me, and that — 
that — " 



THE BEAUTIFUL HOBBOB. 219 

" That he loved thee," replied the old man ; and 
his lips tried impotently to form themselves into a 
smile. " So be it ! I only ask that he will guard 
thee tenderly. I shall not make him wait." 

He laid the soft little hand which was clasping 
his in that of the cavalier, who took it in silence. 
A sharp pang choked his utterance, but if he could 
have spoken, was it possible to tell the old man that 
he could not wear this jewel upon his breast ? Was 
it possible to slay Caterina with that knowledge in 
such an horn- ? Some good angel prompted him to 
do so, even then, and save her and himself ; but the 
opportunity was soon lost. Caterina was bending 
over a corpse, wildly lamenting, and accusing her- 
self of having caused the death of her benefac- 
tor. 



The events just narrated took place early in '^o- 
vember. Upon I^ew Year's Eve, a heavy fall of 
snow, very rare in Florence, kept almost all Italians 
within doors, for they ever shrink from cold. The 
snow rendered noiseless the steps of those who ven- 
tured forth, and deadened even the sound of car- 
riage wheels. 

Two men, shrouded in long cloaks, were hiding 
in the Via dei Pelastri, near the house where 
Giustino Canacci had dwelt. Once or twice they 



220 THE BEAUTIFUL HOBBOR 

stole from their place of concealment, as tliongli to 
reconnoitre, and looked down the street. If a stray 
foot passenger chanced to get a glimpse of them, he 
quickened his pace with a shudder. The trade of 
the assassin was well known in Florence, but no 
one dared to meddle with another seeking for 
vengeance. 

A carriage approached noiselessly. The man 
who was playing the part of coachman was evi- 
denly nnused to such an office ; he drew up awk- 
wardly a few paces beyond Canacci's former resi- 
dence. A lady, wearing a black mask, looked out 
for a moment, when the carriage stopped, then 
spoke in a whisper to one within. There was no 
answer, but a man put forth his hand, opened the 
door, leapt out, and walked boldly up to the dark 
angle where the two bravoes were hiding. This 
man was in no way disguised, except by the fumes 
of liquor, which usually enveloped him, and brought 
to the surface the most brutish part of his nature. 
Almost any passer by would have recognized him as 
Masso, a low, lawless fellow, the only son of Gius- 
tino Canacci by a first marriage. 

He had never looked with favorable eyes upon 
the pretty Caterina, but when he learned that the 
bulk of his father's large fortune was left to her, 
only an Italian can conceive how he hated her, and 



THE BEAUTIFUL HORBOR. 221 

how open lie was to overtures from those who 
shared that hatred. 

Masso exchanged a few words with the men and 
then returned to the carriage. 

" Signora, he has not gone yet." 

The lady did not reply, but signalled to him to 
resume his seat in the coach. 

They had not waited long when the door of 
Giustino Canacci's house opened, and the lamp, car- 
ried by a beautiful girl attired in mourning, fell 
upon the radiant face of a cavalier who was care- 
fully enveloping himself in his cloak. As he 
passed the threshold he turned and tenderly kissed 
her forehead. 

The lady, who was leaning far out of the car- 
riage, drew back and clinched her hands until the 
nails pierced the flesh and blood marked the press- 
ure of every finger. 

The cavalier went rapidly on his way. As soon 
as he was out of sight, Masso again descended from 
the carriage, and knocked at the door. Caterina 
had not had time to return to her apartment, for it 
was her voice that answered, without opening, 
" "Wlio is there 1 " 

" It is I — Masso ; open the door." 

The order was at once obeyed. 



222 THE BEAUTIFUL HORROR. 

'' Come to the salon : I have something to say to 
Ton," said Masso. 

Caterina, bearing the light, led the way to the 
salon, having fii'st carefully closed the door. 

"Wlien they entered the room, Masso said : 

'• TTait for me here a moment — I have f oro-otten 



c 



something." 

Caterina nodded a smiling assent, and seated 
hei*self. Masso returned to the street, handed the 
lady fi'om the carriage, and signalled the two bra- 
voes. All four entered the house, and the door was 
closed and barred. Masso led the way to the apart- 
ment where Caterina sat. The masked lady en- 
tered first ; the three men grouped themselves near 
the entrance, but she strode up to Caterina. 

'- Vv^hat is this ? TTho are you, madam ? '' in- 
quired Caterina, somewhat startled, though not 
evincinor anv o:reat alarm. 

The lady reinoved her mask. 

'' Do you not loiow me ? " 

" Xo, truly, Signora," answered Caterina ; but 
her voice trembled, for the satanic expression of 
the woman who stood before her might well have 
terrified a braver heart. 

" I am the wife of the Duke San Giuliano." 

Caterina did not change color; she simply bowed, 



THE BEA UTIFUL EOBBOR. 223 

and her blue ejes looked the inquiry she was too 
courteous to speak. 

" Who left this house a few moments ago \ " 
asked the Duchess. 

Caterina did not answer. 

" It was your lover ! " shrieked the Duchess. 

Caterina dropped her eyelids silently, but with- 
out shame ; she had no thought of denying the 
fact. 

" The Duke, San Giuliano ? " added the Duchess, 
fiercely. 

Then Caterina gave a violent start, and her face 
blanched- with terror, as she exclaimed, — 

"IsTo! no! Oh, no!" 

" I tell you yes — I saw him ? My eyes are not 
false as lie is^ and as yoic are I " 

Caterina's limbs refused to support her, and she 
dropped, half kneeling, half crouching, before the 
Duchess. 

" You mistook — you mistook ! Jacopo, who left 
me but now, has no wife. When I put off these 
weeds he will have one. He has told me a hundred 
times that he never loved any woman save me. It 
was the tr%ct7i, I knew. You have mistaken him 
for some one else." 

Then the lady's fury burst all bounds. She 
sprang toward the girl, and seizing her by the 



224: TEE BEA UTIFUL EORROR 

throat — that beautiful throat, which her husband 
must haA'e thought of when he so lauded slender 
throats — plunged her dagger in Caterina's breast, 
exclaiming, — 

'^ Two wives he cannot have ! Thus I rid him 
of the one whom he dared to say he loved! He 
has only one left to love." 

The wound was not mortal, and Caterina, with 
the strength of fear, struggled to her feet, and freed 
herself from the grasp of the frantic woman — but 
she encountered the bravoes ! 

Masso went forth to see that her cries had not 
been heard. The men soon followed him. 

After a long interval the door opened again, and 
the lady appeared. She carried in her hand a small 
black bag, entered the carriage, laid the bag on her 
knees, and held it there as she was driven back to 
the Yilla Salviati. 



The Duke woke early the next morning, and 
summoned his valets. It was ]N"ew Tear's Day, 
and all the world would throng the court to pay 
homage to the sovereign. Salviati bade his valets 
bring forth his most costly attire. lie was merry 
that morning, and liberal because he was merry; he 
flung to each a large piece of gold to celebrate the 



THE BEAUTIFUL HORROE. 225 

" Caj>o ^d Anno " (^ew Year), for it was a year 
which promised much happiness^ he said. He was 
humming a popular love song, when some one 
tapped lightly on the door. 

" Come in ! " 

A servant entered, bearing a blue velvet basket, 
embroidered with seed pearls, and apparently well 
filled with fine cambric. The cavaliers of those 
days delighted in fine linen and rich laces. 

" My lady sends to my lord Duke this E"ew 
Year's gift." 

" Thank your lady, and say I wish her a happy 
New Year. This is for thee." He tossed the at- 
tendant a piece of gold. 

The laces v/ere very costly. Upon the top lay a 
superb handkerchief ; then came a rich collar and 
cuffs ; he was trying to lift out the next article, but 
the lace must have caught — it appeared to be fast- 
ened. He plunged his hand in the basket to loosen 
it. His fingers came in contact with something 
very soft and silky ; the touch, thoicgh familiar, 
thrilled him like an electric shock. He drew out 
his hand, but, tangled about the fingers, was a long, 
long tress of burnished gold. Terror stricken, he 
tore away the cambric which covered something in 
the bottom of the basket. Oh, heautiful horror! 
that face — the delicate features white as wax, 
10* 



226 TKE BEAUTIFUL HORROR 

the sightless, glassy, blue eyes, opened wide — the 
head of his beautiful Caterina lay before him ! 

With the savage roar of a wild beast, Salviati 
rushed from the apartment to that of his wife. 

The Duchess was gone. She had only returned 
home the night previous, prepared that basket, left 
it in charge of a servant, and fled. 

The false husband and revengeful wife never 
met again. Salviati, after wandering about the 
world, resting nowhere, and finding no peace, 
haunted by that beautiful horror, died in his 
prime. 

Veronica took up her residence at her father's 
court. Often and often she prayed for pardon ; but 
Salviati was deaf to her supplications. Her life 
drao^ired on to extreme old asre. She passed her 
davs in acts of charity, which brouo^ht comfort to 
Other hearts, but hers was evermore comfortless. 




GINEVRA. 

> » » . 

There is an antique street in Florence, running 
from the Piazza del Duomo to the Via del 
Oche^ which bears the startling title of Via della 
Morta — Street of the Dead. The original name 
of Via del Campanile was changed to Via della 
Morta to commemorate the resuscitation of the 
beautiful Ginevra, who, having escaped from the 
tomb, wandered through the streets by night, seek- 
ing that shelter which the terrors of superstition de- 
nied her. 

The story of Ginevra, even more thrilling and 
singularly romantic than that of Komeo and Juliet, 
or Ippolito Buondehnonte and Dianora dei Bardi 
(whom T. Adolphus TroUope styles the " Tuscan 
Romeo and Juliet"), can hardly be called a tradi- 
tion or legend. It is, beyond question, a true his- 
tory, and has been chronicled by various reliable 
Italian historians — Lastri^ Boiidinelli, del Mig- 
liori; but the most minute account is that given by 
Manni in his " Veglie Piacevole^ 



228 GINEVBA. 

Leigh Hunt has incorporated some of the chief in- 
cidents of the life of Ginevra in his drama entitled 
^' A Legend of Florence ; " a play which was en- 
acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 1840, 
when the role of Ginevra was exquisitely personated 
by Miss Ellen Tree. 

The distinguished author has, however, made a 
most unaccountable error in regard to the period in 
which Ginevra lived. According to the above-men- 
tioned historians, the most remarkable event of her 
life occurred in 1396, but Leigh Hunt states the 
time of his play to be " during the Pontificate of 
Leo X." Pope Leo X. was not born until 1475, 
and he did not become Pope until more than a 
century after the death of Ginevra. Strange to 
say, Leigh Hunt does not seem to have been ac- 
quainted with some of the most striking features of 
her history. If he had been, he could hardly have 
omitted in his play an element so highly dramatic 
as the citing of Ginevra and her early lover, A?ito- 
nio Rondinelli, before the tribunal of her enraged 
husband, Francesco degli Agolanti ; Ginevra's 
eloquent recital of her wrongs ; the wonder and 
sympathy of the Florentine public, and the extraor- 
dinary decision of the judges. 

The Rondinelli were a very ancient and much- 
esteemed Florentine family. They gave to the Ee- 



GINEVBA. 229 

public tliirtj-six Priori, twelve Gonfalonieri (may- 
ors), and one Senator, or Commendatore. The 
name Roi%dinelli signifies swallow^ and the JRondi- 
nelli coat-of-arms was a swallow upon a field of 
gold. 

Towards the close of the fourteenth century, the 
young Antonio Bondinelli became enamored of 
Ginevra degli Almieri, a lady of high lineage. 
Bernardo, the father of Ginevra, a stern, hard, 
grasping man, was at variance with the Eondinelli 
family (an occurrence almost too common be- 
tween noble Florentine families, in those days, to 
be worthy of mention). The youthful Ginevra 
warmly responded to the passion her lovely person 
and lovelier character had kindled; and notwith- 
standing the division between their families, the 
trusting lovers basked in the delicious hope that 
they would one day be united. 

Antonio sought Bernardo degli Almieri, and in 
spite of a frigid and frowning reception, boldly 
avowed his affection for Ginevra, and prayed that 
the discord between their houses might be melted 
into harmony by her fair hand, clasped, before the 
altar, in his. The father repulsed him rudely, and 
forbade all intercourse between the lovers. Then 
Ginevra, gaining courage through her dismay, went 
to her father and implored him to hear her — told 



230 GINBVRA 

him of her love for Antonio, and besought him not 
to separate them. Her father tm-ned an obdurate 
ear to her pleadings, and drove her from his pres- 
ence. Ginevra mourned and pined for her ban- 
ished lover without disguising her sorrow. Ber- 
nardo augared from this open grief that she cher- 
ished a hope that he would be moved to i*evoke the 
sentence of separation. To dispel any such base- 
less delusion, he determined to give her in marriage 
mthout delay. 

FTancesGo degli Agolanti was one of the most 
opulent men in Florence. From certain facts, how- 
ever, related by historians, it may be inferred that 
he was as miserly as he was wealthy. Ginevra, far 
from listening to his wooing, turned from him with 
unconcealed aversion ; but this did not prevent 
Agolanti's demanding her hand of her father, who 
promised it willingly. When her approaching 
betrothal was announced to Ginevra, she made reso- 
lute resistance, and conjured her imperious father 
not to add this new affliction to the one whiqli had 
already bereft her-of her happiness. His reply was 
to hasten the preparations for her nuptials. When 
Ginevra found her struggles fruitless, she fell into 
a state of deep dejection and listless apathy. She 
no longer seemed to notice what passed around her, 
and was led to the altar unresistingly, as though her 



GINEVRA. 231 

faculties bad become torpid — as if sbe was no 
longer capable even of tbe sensation of pain. 

After Jier mamage, this inert and passive condi- 
tion became confirmed. She moved about like a 
being whose soul was absent, and went through the 
ordinary routine of life mechanically, almost uncon- 
sciously. She seldom spoke, or smiled, or even 
lamented her fate aloud. Yery soon she was at- 
tacked by an hysterical affection which induced 
long swoons of frequent occurrence. The physi- 
cians who attended her pronounced her disease con- 
sumption. At the end of four yeairs, she one day 
fell into a swoon, from which all efforts to revive her 
proved ineffectual. The medical men, after having 
exhausted their skill without result, informed her 
husband that she had expired. 

At sunset on the evening of the same day, she 
was carried, with great pomp, upon an open funeral 
car, to the family vault of the Agolanti in the ceme- 
tery of the Duomo. Here, according to custom, 
her fair body was laid upon a shelf, among the 
mouldering skeletons of her husband's ancestors. 
The month was October. The moon shone brightly 
that night. The stone placed at the mouth of the 
tomb had not been re-cemented. The masons were 
to perform the work on the morrow. Through the 
aperture left by the loosened and ill-fitting stone. 



232 GmEVRA. 

the moonlight streamed, and lighted np tlie dismal 
Taiilt. 

Ginevra from her long swoon had sunk into a 
deep trance, bnt life was not extinct. In the mid- 
dle of the night she feebly stirred, and slowly recov- 
ered her consciousness. At iu-st, in her half -wak- 
ened and tremulously weak state, she thought her- 
self oppressed by a frightful dream. But as her 
senses fully returned, she saw the skeleton forms 
with which she was holding companionship, and 
attempted to start up, but fell back powerless and 
in great affright ; for she now discovered that her 
hands and feet were bound. Then, for the first 
time, she beheld the grave-clothes in which she was 
attired, and knew by them, and her bandaged feet 
and hands, that she must have been supposed to be 
dead, and had been buried. Fear lent her new 
strength, and after many despairing efforts she suc- 
ceeded in loosening the bandages, and disentangling 
herself from the swathing folds of her long shroud. 
She stood up, trembling and appalled, but, guided 
by the moonlight, staggered to the five steps before 
the entrance, and crept up to the stone which barred 
her exit. To remove it with those delicate and 
feeble hands seemed impossible ; but at such mo- 
ments the frailest natures are endowed with super- 
human strength. After several futile attempts, 



GINEVEA. 233 

which with every failure increased her horror, the 
stone was rolled over, and she stood in the moon- 
light, in the open cemetery, freed — saved from a 
living tomb, probably from a death of maddening 
terror. 

With feeble steps she hurried through the streets, 
her long shroud trailing on the ground, her white 
drapery floating around her, and her ghastly face 
looking unearthly in the moonlight. She was seek- 
ing her home — the home from which she had that 
morning been borne as a corpse. What wonder 
that the midnight stragglers who met her thought 
that they saw an apparition, and fled affrighted ? 

At last she reached Francesco Agolanti's house, 
in the street called by the name of his family, and, 
knocking, sank upon the threshold, crying out to 
her husband to admit her quickly. The window of 
Agolanti's chamber opened upon a balcony which 
commanded the front entrance. He heard the knock 
and the pleading cry, and hastened to the balcony. 
Ginevra looked up, and called to him with a feeble, 
imploring voice. He recognized the grave-shrouded 
form, the white face, and the plaintive tones, and 
was seized with frantic alarm, for he believed him- 
self visited by the ghost of his buried wife. Mak- 
ing the sign of the cross repeatedly, and with great 
rapidity and vehemence, he bade her depart and 



234 GINEVBA. 

leave him iu peace, promising that abmidant masses 
should be said for the rest of her soul. Ginevra, in 
an agonized voice, replied that she lived, and en- 
treated to be admitted. Her husband, more terrified 
than ever, rushed into his chamber, closed the 
window, sprang into bed, and covering his head 
with the clothes, to shut out the terrible sound of 
that low, piteous plaint, recited the De Prqfundis 
until all was silent again. 

The hapless Ginevra rose from the ground with 
difficulty, and with tottering feet dragged herself 
to the door of her father's house in the Mercato 
Yecchio, behind S. Andrea. Again she knocked, 
and prayed to be allowed to come in ; but when 
her summons roused the domestics, and her father 
himself, she was again mistaken for an apparition ; 
the door was closed upon her, and her father and 
liis servants retreated in alarm. Ginevra lay upon 
the cold steps, almost insensible, and in despair. All 
who saw her fled, terror-stricken, from her presence. 
She had returned from the grave, and no one would 
grant her earthly shelter. 

]^o OJie? Was there not one who would never 
bid her depart, even should he imagine that she had 
come to him as a spirit ? With that thought she 
once more struggled to her feet, and made her toil- 



GINEVBA. 235 

some way through the deserted streets to the Piazza 
San Lorenzo, where dwelt Antonio Rondinelli. 

Antonio still loved her with unabated ardor, and 
had taken a vow to be constant to her memory, and 
never to marry. The tidings of her death had 
reached him, and he had not sought his couch that 
night. He was sitting weeping, and thinking of his 
doubly lost Ginevra. 

Her strength was now so far exhausted, that she 
could only knock very feebly ; but Antonio heard 
the sound, and passing out into liis balcony, saw the 
grave-clad figure, and the upturned, colorless face 
of Ginevra. She faintly murmured his name. He, 
too, believed that it was a spirit — but it was the 
spirit of his beloved, and the sight and sound filled 
him with transport. Rapidly and joyfully he de- 
scended, and threw open the entrance door, and 
stooped to raise the cold, shrouded form that lay 
prostrate at his feet. What painter, what poet could 
picture his amazement and his ecstasy ? Ginevra 
lived, and was restored to him ! 

He summoned his mother, with whom he resided, 
and assembled his family to rejoice with him, and 
to listen to Ginevra's tale. Then Antonio bound 
them all by an oath to silence, and sent a faithful 
servant to replace the stone upon the opening of the 
vault, and to remove every trace of the fugitive's 



236 GINEVRA. 

footsteps. Meantime the exhausted Ginevra, now 
indeed almost dying from the neglect and hardships 
she had endured, was laid in a warm bed, and ten- 
derly ministered to by the mother of Antonio. For 
four days Ginevra's life seemed like a flickering can- 
dle, which a single breath might extinguish. On 
the fifth day she gradually revived, and before long 
was able to rise and converse. 

She then pondered deeply and sadly upon the 
only honorable com-se that was left to her, and with 
gentle firmness aimounced to Antonio, that, as she 
could never return to her brutal husband's protec- 
tion, she felt herself compelled to enter a convent. 
Antonio, hurled from his sudden happiness into an 
abyss of despair, implored her to revoke this cruel 
decision — cruel not to him only, but to herself. 
He brought forward manifold arguments to con- 
vince her that the tie w^hich bound her to As^olanti 
was dissolved by a death and burial which all the 
world believed to be real, and entreated her to be- 
come the wife of one who had never loved but her, 
and had claimed her for his own before she was 
sold to Agolanti. Ilis mother and family joined 
their prayers to his, and Ginevra listening to them, 
and to the pleadings of her own heart, slowly con- 
sented. 

It is recorded that Antonio and Ginevra were 



GINEVEA. 287 

privately united by the public notary, wlio was 
bound to secrecy. 

Meantime all Florence was listening to descrip- 
tions of the ghost of Ginevra, which so many persons 
had beheld passing through the streets, and which 
her husband testified had appeared to him, and 
her father made known had also visited his door. 
The two families ordered a bountiful number of 
masses to be said for the repose of the unquiet 
spirit. 

Agolanti now offered the jewels and wardrobe of 
Ginevra for sale. His great wealth did not prevent 
his evincing this lack of reverence for her memory, 
impelled by a sordid love of gain. Eondinelli, as 
soon as he heard of the proposed barter, hastened to 
the residence of Agolanti, and purchased every ar- 
ticle his newly-made wife had possessed, paying the 
most extravagant prices to prevent the smallest ob- 
ject which had been consecrated by her use from 
passing into the hands of strangers. 

For some months Ginevi-a lived in entire seclu- 
sion, her existence unknown to any but her hus- 
band's family and a few trustworthy domestics. But 
neither she nor her husband were satisfied with this 
mode of life. Rondinelli saw no reason why he 
should not appear before the world as the proud 
husband of so fair and beloved a wife. Ginevra, 



238 QINEVBA. 

too, detested the constant stratagems to which they 
were obliged to resort, and resolved to go forth 
boldly. In the revivifying atmosphere of calm hap- 
piness and satisfied love, she had risen out of the 
passive inertness which had paralyzed her faculties 
during the four miserable years which she had 
passed under the roof of Agolanti, and her character 
reassumed its genuine traits. Frank, ardent, and 
confident, hating dissimulation, and having firm 
faith that the step she had taken was fully justified, 
she exhibited neither fear nor hesitation, and was 
ready to brave the ordeal of public opinion. 

Accordingly, one morning, Antonio and Ginevra 
were seen in the Boboli Gardens. Ginevra was 
leaning on her husband's arm, his sister accompanied 
them, and a servant followed. They encountered 
friends, whose amazement rendered them almost 
speechless. But Ginevra, whenever she saw she 
was recognized, paused, and courteously addressed 
her former acquaintances. She told them that her 
husband had not only hastily buried her alive, 
without the proper investigation which might have 
proved that she was not dead, but that when she 
sought his door, and that of her father, she had 
been rejected by both ; and that it was not the 
fault of husband, father, priests, or physicians that 
she was not in reality dead; for dead she must 



9 

to 

Oil 




GIIsfEVBA. 239 

shortly have been but for him who alone had truly 
loved her, and opened his door and his arms to 
receive her, whether she came in the flesh or the 
spirit; and therefore it was to him that her life 
belonged, and to him it had been consecrated. 

Francesco degli Agolanti soon heard of his wife's 
re-appearance, of her defiant words and her new 
marriage. Finding that the tale was true, he made 
an appeal (with great clarrioT^ as the Italian histo- 
rians say) to the courts of justice, to induce them to 
restore Ginevra to him, her rightful husband. 

Ginevra and Antonio were suiilmoned to appear 
before the ecclesiastical court, over which the arch- 
bishop presided. The excitement ran high through- 
out Florence, and the court was surrounded by an 
indignant and enthusiastic populace, who denounced 
Agolanti and Bernardo, and openly declared their 
sympathy for Antonio and Ginevra. Before the 
tribunal Ginevra told her tale bravely and with 
great feeling, and made known her determination 
to resist her former husband's effort to reclaim her, 
after he had twice placed her life in peril, had shut 
her up in the grave, and had closed his doors upon 
her ; adding, that if she should be separated from 
Antonio, she would take refuge from Agolanti in a 
convent. 

The cause was ably argued on both sides. But 



24:0 GINEVRA. 

the judges, in tliose times, hardly dared to gainsay 
the outspoken verdict of the many-mouthed public, 
which was apt to decide for them what was justice, 
and to enforce that justice, when not summarily 
dealt out, by riot and bloodshed. 

The decision given will seem almost incredible 
in our days. The marriage between Agolanti and 
Ginevra was declared void and null, through her 
supposed death and actual burial ; and the court 
decided that she was free to form other ties, accord- 
ing to her good pleasure ; that the ties she had 
contracted were legal ; and that she was now the 
lawful wife of Antonio Rondinelli ! 




LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 



PAET I. 

''' Lcb Belle Clementine /" That was the only 
name by which she was known when she stood be- 
fore the French tribunal — the only name by which 
she is designated on the records of the criminal 
court of Paris. The French law makes a lenient 
provision by which a culprit's family is spared un- 
deserved shame, and thus the real name of " La 
Belle Olementine^'' throughout her trial, was kept a 
profound secret. 

Clementine belonged to one of those noble, but 
decayed, families, whose exclusiveness had not sur- 
vived its wealth. It was not difficult to obtain ad- 
mission into the salons which the degenerate no- 
bility frequented. The handsome, daring, dashing 
Chevalier de la Bocheforte found an easy entree^ 
and nobody troubled himself about the Chevalier's 
antecedents. 

^^ La Belle Clementine'''' had hardly completed 

(2-11) 



242 LA BELLE CLEXENTL^E, 

her seventeenth, vear Tvhen they met. De la Roche- 
foite was qnicklv and geniiinelj enamored of the 
peerless beauty, and Clementine was too impassion- 
ate, imaginative, ardent, not to be captivated in 
torn. 

Her beanty vras all the more striking, because 
wholly nnlike the French type. Those changeful 
eyes, the positive color of which might have been 
gray, but appears now blue, now violet, now hazel, and 
now black ; that luxuriant hair, revealing a variety 
of tints — bright chestnut near the roots, and the 
hue of satiny straw towards the ends; the finely 
shaped nostrils, that expand when the eye dilates ; 
the transparent skin, that shows the delicate veins 
beneath, betrays the faintest blush of emotion, and 
renders pallor more marble-like when the blood re- 
treats — these were eloquent signs of the tempera- 
ment most dangerous to womanliood before its eai-s 
are opened to the heaven-commissioned monitor 
within. 

For the Che^•alier de la Kochef orte to have offered 
himself openly as a suitor to Clementine, would 
have entailed the necessity of making Icnown his 
birth, his means of livelihood, his actual position ; 
and there were verv srood reasons whv these should 
remain enveloped in myster}'. Singular as it may 
seem, vanity, and perhaps a touch of latent lionesty, 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 243 

prompted him to test the depth of Clementine's in- 
fatuation, and the straggle of his own power, by 
thrilling her ears with the romantic narrative of his 
lawless youth, and the history of daring exploits, 
to which the administrators of justice w^ould have 
given a somewhat sterner name. 

Did Clementine shrink from the man who stood 
before her an avowed . criminal ? Alas ! it is as sad 
as true, that a large class of women are subject to a 
sort of demoniacal possession wdiich takes the form 
of frantic admiration for a \dllain-hero. The awe, 
dread, and wonder, and with which they regard these 
fascinating demi-devils, only strengthen the un- 
reasoning passion. Clementine, when she heard 
from her lover's own lips the story of his unworthi- 
ness, was more madly in love with him than before. 
She was -ready to fly with him, to cling to him, 
to share his dangers and be covered with his shame, 
to risk life itself by his side. 

A secret union in France was out of the question 
for one who had not reached her majority. They 
fled to England, where the marriage was duly sol- 
emnized, returned to Paris, and lived in seclusion, 
undiscovered by her relatives. 

Three years after " La Belle Clementine " be- 
came the wife of " Yictorien le Yictorieitx^'^ as he 
w^as styled by tlie band of rufiians whom he ruled 



21i ZA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

with a rod of ii'on, and who idolized him for 
liis braverr, a robbery was committed on the prem- 
ises of a weahhy miser, followed by murder — a 
mm*der which was supposed to have been uninten- 
tional, and perpetrated in self-defence. The offen- 
dei-s were traced to the abode of theii* chief ; Yic- 
torien and his band were arrested, and with them 
" La Belle CleTYientiiier 

The trial lasted many days, and though it took 
place with ^' closed doors," veiy little influence was 
needed to obtain admission, and the comt was 
thi'onged. 

Clementine's remarkable beauty, her youth, her 
apparent unsophistication, and her passionate at- 
tempts to shield her husband, moved even her judges 
to compassion. Tictorien and several of his comrades 
were foimd guilty of murder, and sentenced to the 
guillotine; ^^ La Belle Clementine^'' and the othei*3 
were condemned to imprisonment for life. 

Clementine was thrown into a state of frenzy 
by the sentence passed upon her husband, and pit- 
eously implored to bo allowed to share his fate ; 
since the judges thought her gnilty, let the guillo- 
tine be her doom also ; the sentence they had passed 
on her was no punishment — for if Tictorien died, 
the whole world would be but one vast, solitary 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 245 

prison-house, wliicli tlieir sentence could not render 
more desolate. 

Her pathetic appeal was not one to be granted, 
but it heightened the agitation visible throughout 
the court. That emotion had in one instance been 
so violent, that when the jury pronounced the verdict 
of " guilty," a young man fell to the ground, and' 
was borne forth insensible. 

That night De la Eocheforte swallowed an acid, 
which he had himself prepared by steeping a sou 
in vinegar, and was found dead in his cell. 

When the tidings were communicated to Clemen- 
tine, they seemed to benumb her intellect ; she sank 
into a state of physical and mental prostration, and 
was hardly conscious of her removal to the Maison 
Centrale at Fontevrault. An attack of brain fever 
ensued, and when she rallied, her body alone ap- 
peared to have returned to life — her soul remained 
afar off. 

Happily she found a pitying friend in the kindly 
physician of the prison. He advised her to peti- 
tion to be sent to Cayenne, where she would at least 
have more freedom, be allowed to breathe the fresh 
air, and have duties assigned her which would help 
to divert her thouo-hts from brooding: over the mis- 
erable past and dreary future. Clementine, grate^ 
ful for any change, and believing that none could 



2^6 LA BELLE CLEMENTi:!^E. 

be for the woi*se, made the application. The request 
was granted without difficulty, and the stricken, 
doomed, desolate gii-l made a tedious voyage to the 
French penal settlement in South America, which 
is a less intolerable home to the convict than the 
prisons of France. Ou the small, arid, sun-scorched 
island of Cayenne, Clementine thought to pass the 
remainder of her days. 



PAET n. 

We have already mentioned that when ''' La Belle 
Clemerhtine '' was pronounced guilty, there was one 
pei-son among the sympathizing crowd so strongly 
moved that he fell prostrate and unconscious. It 
was the Viscount Eugene de Rosier, a youth of 
eighteen. Every day, while the trial lasted, he had 
presented himself at the doors loug before they 
were opened, and, being the fii-st to enter, he al- 
ways made his way to the same seat — one where 
he could face the prisoners at the bar. His agita- 
tion when La Belle Clementine appeared in the 
dock was often so imcontrollable, that it drew tlie 
eyes of the court upon him. When appearances 
seemed to criminate her, he clenched his hands, 
gasped for breath, and sometimes tore open his vest 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 247 

as if he were stifling. His eager eyes never turned 
fi'om her face, and now and then it seemed as though 
magnetically they drew her eyes to look his way. 
In leaviuo- the court he was often heard assertinoj 
his firm belief in her innocence, quoting circum- 
stances which proved that she could not be guilty, 
and vehemently protesting that her only crime con- 
sisted in loving too faithfully and too blindly a vil- 
lain. 

Friends inquired if the young Yiscount knew " La 
Belle Clementine " personally. " Know her ? Yes, 
— IN'o," he answered, incoherently. That is, he 
knew her ; for who could listen to all those minute 
details of her life, and feel that he did not loiow 
her ? Who could look upon her wondrously beauti- 
ful countenance until it became so familiar that it 
filled his mental vision night and day, and say that 
he did not know her ? But, except before that 
dreadful tribunal, they had never met; he had 
never addressed one word to her ; and yet he was 
sure she knew of his sympathy, his devotion, his 
prayers that she might be proved innocent. Their 
eyes had met — she had thanked him by a grateful 
look — had told him of her innocence by the indig- 
nant flush that mantled her cheek when she was ac- 
cused. No jury would dare to commit such a 



2-iS LA BELLE CLE2IE2s^TiyE. 

wrong as to find a verdict of " gnilty -' against 
lier. 

^When tlie last day of the trial came — when he 
discovered his error, and heard that appalling word 
pronounced, the yoimg Yisconnt started fi*om his 
seat, trembling, and deadly pale. lie strove to 
speak, bnt the words tiinied into a hoarse cry, which 
broke the solemn stillness that followed the verdict. 
Then came the sound of a fall, and all eyes, even 
those of Clementine, the convicted, were turned up- 
on the youth, whom the gens d/armes carried insen- 
sible fi-om the court. 

^Yhen he recovered from his swoon, the vounor 
Viscount raved wildly against the injustice of the 
law, declared that he would see Clementine again, 
would give her the assurance that there was one 
who would move heaven and eaith to get her sen- 
tence revoked, or enable her to escape. Ilis fi-iends 
only laughed at his vague thi-eats, and his parents 
secretly remarked how well enthusiasm became him 
— how his eves flittered with an unwonted lii^ht, 
vv'hat a torrent of eloquence burst from his lips. 
But suddenly Eugene disappeared, lie made no 
preparations, left no letter, had not supplied him- 
self with money, and his purse was usually empty. 

Aoronized bv terrible fears, his father c»ffered a 
large reward for his discovery, and he was soon 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 249 

traced by the police. On the road to Fontainebleau 
they found an exhausted, half -starved youth, whose 
college dress betrayed him. He had wandered 
three or four days and nights without food or 
shelter, determined to reach the Maison Centrales 
and to see Clementine. He had planned various 
extravagant modes of obtaining an interview, and 
he was within sight of the walls of the city, when 
is over-taxed strength abandoned him, and he sank 
by the wayside, unable to drag himseK a step 
farther. In spite of his pathetic entreaties to be al- 
lowed to complete his journey, he was re-conducted 
to his home. 

It was only too evident that his mind had become 
seriously unsettled by what French physicians call 
the idee fixe. For years he was kept under the sur- 
veillance, first of a tutor, then of a constant com- 
panion. IN'otwithstanding his mental infirmity, he 
distinguished himself at college. He also excelled 
in fencing, boxing, running, leaping ; he was a dar- 
ing equestrian, and one of the most skilful swords- 
men in Paris ; he cultivated all gymnastic exercises 
with singular perseverance, as though he had some 
hidden object in view, and expected an hour would 
come when he would fight against fearful odds, 
overleap the most most formidable barriers, make 

his escape, and fly unimpeded by heavy burdens, 
-ti* 



250 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE, 



Ilis father died, leaving the son but a small patri- 
mony with his title. At last the irritating watch- 
fulness which had thrown a restraint over Eugene's 
actions was relaxed. He had always delighted to 
exhibit his strength of muscle. He suddenly in- 
vented a new mode for its display at the Jockey 
Club, of which he was a member, by bending a 
Napoleon between his Unger and thumb — gold be- 
came wax in his iron grip. This feat he performed 
many times, and< after bending the coin, always 
presented it to one of the wondering lookers-on, 
and received another ^N'apoleon in exchange. 

A young man from Boii-deaux, wdio was making 
his first visit to Paris, was so much struck by the 
ease with which Count de Rosier folded up these 
coins, that he frequently desired him to repeat the 
experiment, always securing the bent coins as tro- 
phies, and giving others in exchange. It chanced, 
after a time, that the young Bordeaulaise fell 
short of money, and took the little stock of bent 
ISTapoleons which he had kept as curiosities to the 
money-changers. The information which h e recei ved 
on presenting them caused him to rush to the club 
in a state of fury. There he found the Count sit- 
ting in his usual seat, and in an attitude which had 
lately become habitual to him — that of a man who 



LA BELLE CLEMENTLNE. 251 

was waiting, waiting for some one or something — - 
always waiting ! 

His face brightened strangely as lie saw the 
flushed and enraged countenance of the Bordeau- 
laise, and grew brigliter still, when the young man 
planted himself in front of the Count, and requested 
the gentlemen present to bear witness that every 
Napoleon which Count de Hosier had bent with 
such marvellous facility, and in exchange for which 
he had received good money, was counterfeit ! 

The Count rose, bowed courteously, and replied, 
with an air of self-congratulation, " You are right, 
sir ; they are counterfeit coins, every one of them! 
I freely admit the fact." 

He spoke in a tone of triumph. 

"Sir," exclaimed his exasperated accuser, "do 
vou know that this is a crime for which I shall bring: 
you to justice? " 

" You are bound to do so, sir," replied the Count, 
complacently. 

" Do you suppose that I am jesting, that you take 
it so coolly?" returned the Bordeaulaise. "Are 
you aware that you ^vill probably be transported ? " 

" Yes — to Cayen;ie ! that is all I ask. Heaven 
Imows I have done enou2:h to be sent there ! But 
I have l)cen so unfortunate, nobody would ever find 
inc out I " 



252 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

The gentlemen who had formed a circle around 
De Hosier looked at each other aghast. 

Seeing that no one moved, he asked indig- 
nantly : 

" Why am I not arrested ? Have I not admitted 
that the coins were false ? " 

At this crisis an elderly gentleman suggested 
that the Count should be locked in the room where 
he then was, and begged the other members of the 
club to withdraw to an adjoining apartment. ^Ylien 
they were assembled there he strenuously advised, 
that, before sending for the officers of justice. Dr. 
Blanche, the celebrated physician for the insane, 
should be summoned. 

The Count sat waiting, , with that air of eager 
expectation which had grown so familiar to his 
features. But when the door opened, and he 
turned to welcome an officer, he encountered a 
physician. 

After a brief interview. Dr. Blanche informed 
the members of the club that the unfortunate Count 
was undoubtedly laboring under monomania, and 
that his fixed determination to behold and succor 
a being who had made an indelible impression on 
his youthful imagination would cause him to com- 
mit any act of madness. He added that there was 
but one chance of cure — a faint one, perhaps, but 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 253 

still chance — and that lay in the gratification of 
the ardent desire which he had cherished for full 
twenty years. The Count fancied that in beholding 
"Z(^ Belle Clementine " he would see the young 
and beautiful woman whose image was ever present 
to his eyes. But twenty years had elapsed. Clem- 
entine must now be forty — time, toil, exposure to a 
tropical sun, and the wretched existence she must 
have led, had doubtless destroyed her personal 
charms. The presence of the real being would de- 
throne the ideal, and dissipate the Count's infatua- 
tion. The benevolent doctor concluded by saying 
that if the members of the club would lend him 
their aid in taking steps to render this voyage to 
Cayenne feasible, it might be the means of restoring 
to reason an unf ortimate gentleman whom they had 
all hitherto esteemed. 

Not a man present withheld his consent, and the 
generous young Bordeaulaise was one of the most 
zealous in discussing the best method to be adopted, 
and afterwards in carrying into execution the plan$ 
agreed upon. 



PAitT in. 



Clementine, by the time she reached Cayenne, 
was comparatively restored to physical health. She 



254 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

seldom spoke, and neTer murmured. In a state of 
stolid abstraction she went mechanically through the 
labors assigned her — labors for which those smallj 
delicately-moulded hands, that bore witness to her 
gentle blood, were how unfitted ! She was never 
roused from her apathy, save by the voice of the 
priest whose duty it was to visit the convicts. She 
never seemed to experience the faintest emotion, 
either of pain or pleasure, except when she was 
assembled with her unfortunate companions to 
listen to his exhortations ; and then it was only the 
expression of unutterable anguish upon her pallid 
countenance that betrayed her mental agony. 

As years passed on, little by little, a holy calm, 
full of earnest endeavor, took the place of her 
apathetic tranquillity ; no stranger who looked into 
those serenely thoughtful eyes could have believed 
that hers was an existence without earthly hope; 
that she was a convict for life ! 

Gradually more liberty was accorded her ; she 
was permitted to nurse the sick, and it was soon 
found that she ministered to them with singular 
skill and tenderness. She also evinced a marvellous 
power to comfort tliose whom a sentence as severe 
as her own had driven to reckless despair. She 
induced them to accept the fate which was inevita- 
ble, and to turn their thoughts to that life which 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 255 

was full of hope, even to such as they. Often the 
most dcfrraded and nnorovernable listened to her 
pleading voice, and their blasphemies and lamenta- 
tions melted into prayere. She always spoke of 
hei-self as of one as guilty as they ; and this self- 
accusation seemed all the stronger from the fact, 
that the most criminal of her companions were ever 
striving to prove their innocence and the injustice 
of their sentence. 

From time to time, reports sent from the penal 
colony to the- French Government set forth the 
piety, and virtue, and untiring zeal of "Clementine." 
But her sad story had almost passed out of the 
minds of those who now heard these accounts. 

It would be tedious to enter into the full particu- 
lars of the movement which resulted in the embark- 
ation of Count Eugene de Rosier and a young 
physician, selected by Dr. Blanche, for Cayenne. 

Eugene betrayed no symptoms of derangement 
during the passage, except, indeed in the enthusiasm 
with which he over and over again described to his 
companion the eloquent face, the rapid transitions of 
expression, the great eyes of changing hue; the 
hair of mingled tints, so luxuriant in its thick waves 
and rich curls ; the fragile, graceful form, the lofty 
bearing, the picturesque attire, of "Z^z J3elle Clemen- 
tine!''' He would know her anywhere, he affirmed ; 



256 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

in any garb ; and a voice within told him that she, 
toOj wonld instantly recognize him. 

As they neared the port, he gave way to a wild 
bm-st of joy, and his impatience became so great, 
that Dr. Jouvet placed his ann in that of his patient, 
and grasped him fii-mly, fearing that he might 
plunge into the waves, and endeavor to swim to the 
shore, for he was a bold and experienced swimmer. 
They were safely landed at last, and without delay 
sought the residence of the Governor; were court- 
eously received by him; presented the letter of 
which Dr. Jouvet was the bearer, aud obtained an 
order for the Count to visit Clementine. 

On their way to the prison, Eugene was filled 
with dismay at the dreary appearance of the island; 
at the sight of the wi-etched, wasted, diseased con- 
victs whom he encountered. Throuo;h what horrors 
" La Belle Clementine^'' so young, so beautiful, 
must have passed duriug her twenty years of cap- 
tivity ! Twenty years I Could it be twenty years 
since he beheld lier last ? And he could see her 
face as vividly, could remember the sound of her 
voice and the most trivial incidents of that fearful 
trial as perfectly, as thougli twenty hours instead of 
twenty years had elapsed. 

Dr. Jouvet delivered the Governor's order to the 
head matron, and when she retired to summon 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 257 

Clementine, he also withdrew. Eugene was left in 
the rude, bare apartment appropriated to the ma- 
tron's use, waiting with beating heart and breath 
almost suspended. 

In a fev/ moments the door opened, and he 
bounded forward impetuously, but stopped; for 
there stood before him an elderly woman, attired in 
the uncouth prison dress ; her hair smoothed away 
from her brow and almost entirely concealed be- 
neath an ill-shaped cap ; her form very far from 
fragile ; her face round, and somewhat ruddy, 
though lightly furrowed ; and her whole aspect that 
of an unpretending, self-possessed matron. 

The Count paused abruptly, and then said, v/ith 
an apologetic air ; 

"I desired to see Clementine — La Belle Clemen- 
tine ! " he added, fervently. 

The matron's lips did not part even with the 
faintest soujpgon of a smile at this familiar appella- 
tion. She merely raised her eyes to his face with a 
look of inquiry ; the hue of those steady eyes was 
not dubious: it was clearly and softly gray. Then, 
bowing calmly, and without a shadow of emotion, 
she replied : 

" I am Clementine, Monsieur.^'' 

" You I " 

The Count was struck speechless. He gazed at 



258 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

her in agOBized bewilderment; tried to recognize 
her features, her form, her expression, her voice 
even — in vain ! in vain ! He had never seen, never 
heard, this cold, calm, self-contained matron before. 

At last he gasped out : 

" And you — you remember Tne f " 

" No, Monsieur," was the laconic answer. 

" Is"o ! and I was there through it all ; I watched 
you every day; I knew you were innocent — 
innocent of everything, but lovdng too well." 

Clementine started, and flushed crimson; the 
gray eyes had grown very dark as they were raised 
heavenward for an instant, and then dropped their 
lids. 

" Through all these years your face has ever been 
before my eyes," resumed the Count. 

Clementine's gaze was bent upon the ground, 
and, though her lips quivered, she made no answer. 

" Say, at least, that you remember the youth who 
swooned when you were pronoimced guilty ? " 

She shuddered visibly, and, in a half-whisper, 
answered : 

"Yes, I remember." 

" lie has dreamed of you night and day ; has fol- 
lowed you here, after all these years, to see you — to 
do something for you ! " 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 259 

" Wliat is there to be done for such a one as I 
am ? " replied Clementine hopelessly. 

The words recalled Eugene to a consciousness of 
his position. "What was there to be done, indeed ! 

How often he had di-eamed of " La Belle Clem- 
entine " pardoned by the Emperor ; how often he 
had fondly thought he would make her his wife ; 
how often he had pictured their lives in some far- 
ofi: land, where both would be unknown. But this 
woman, who, though still strikingly handsome, 
bore no resemblance to the ideal in his mind — 
was she the being with whom he pined to share 
the rest of his existence, and for whom no sacri- 
fice could be too great ? 

" If the Emperor's pardon could be procured — " 

He hesitated, and was silent — at a loss how to 
finish the sentence. 

" I have never dared to hope for it ! " mournfully 
ejaculated Clementine. 

" But, if it could be obtained, there would be a 
future still before you ! " 

" There is a future, even here ; my life is not 
wholly useless. I thank God for that." 

She could hardly have made a reply that would 
have touched Eugene more deeply ; there is some- 
thing so penetrating in the holiness of that resigna- 
tion which hopes nothing for itself, yet is hopeful 



260 LA belli: CLEWENTIjS'E. 

and helpful for others. He recognized her voice at 
last, and it seemed to him more richly melodions 
than ever. 

"/will seek for yonr pardon! To what better 
object could I devote mv life?" he replied, with 
new ardor. 

Clementine's eyes dilated with sudden joy nntil 
they seemed a brilliant black; she clasped her 
hands, and burst into a fit of convnlsive weeping. 

A jailer entered ; the time allowed for the inter- 
view had expired. Without being able to utter a 
single sentence, the convict was compelled to with- 
draw. 

The state in which Eugene returned to his com- 
panion completely pnzzled the physician. It was 
impossible to tell whether his patient was or was 
not cured, or what effect the great change in Clem- 
entine had wrought upon him — he was so excited, 
yet so eager to leave the island. A very inferior 
vessel was to sail for France in a few days ; its ac- 
commodations were of the rudest kind ; but Eugene 
insisted on taking passage ; he could not brook de- 
lay : and durino: the days that intervened before 
the ship sailed, he made no attempt to see Clemen- 
tine again. 



ZA BELLE CLEMENTINE. ^61 



CONCLUSION. 

Two years later, the Count was once more on his 
way to Cayenne; for two years he had labored, 
first to reach, then to influence those in power, who 
finally obtained from the Emperor the pardon of 
which Eugene was now the bearer. During those 
two years, no symptom of his mental derangement 
had been apparent; he had something to achieve, 
and to a mind in the state of his, occupation is sal- 
yation. 

Eugene had made every arrangement for Clemen- 
tine's instant return to France. Plis thoughtf ulness 
and delicacy were touchingly evinced in his prepa- 
rations. He had secured a stateroom on board of 
the vessel in which he sailed for its return passage, 
and had pro^dded a trunk containing a fitting ward- 
robe for a lady. 

Did Eugene remember his frantic impatience to 
behold Clementine when he entered that port two 
years before ? He betrayed no such eagerness now. 
He did not even seek the prison. The trunk, with 
two envelopes addressed to Clementine, were con- 
veyed to her by a trusty messenger. One envelope 
contained her pardon, the other the ticket for her 
passage and a handsome smn of money — literally 
half of all that Eugene possessed. These gifts she 



262 LA BELLE CLEMENTLNE. 

was allovred to belieye were part of the Emperors 
LoiiiitT. 

Clementine liad gained the respect and esteem of 
the whole colony, and her departure was the signal 
for lond lamentations among the poor wretches 
whose fate her gentle presence and loving ministry 
had softened, Alas I they were too sorrowful for 
themselves to be generous enough to rejoice for 
her. 

When the day upon which the vessel was to sail 
arrived, she was handed on board by the Governor 
of the island himself. She wore the simplest of 
the dresses found in the well-filled trunk, but her 
beauty, so long disguised by the hideous prison 
garb, shone forth in startling splendor. It was not 
the beauty of the Clementine of old, but a mellow, 
subdued, unyouthful, yet heart-touching loveliness. 
There was not the faintest trace of the twenty 
years' convict in the dignified gentlewoman with 
whom the Governor shook hands warmly, as he 
withdrew, after presenting her to the captain of the 
vessel. The captain himself conducted her to lier 
stateroom. 

As slie was walking by his side, she started vio 
lently, and left a sentence unfinished. She had 
cauHit sis^ht of some one in the distance, who lifted 
his hat. Eugene, as he advanced to greet her, ex- 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 263 

perienced a sense of inexplicable gratification when 
he found her so powerfully agitated, that, after 
stammering out a few inarticulate words, she re- 
tired to her stateroom, and did not re-appear until 
the vessel had sailed. 

" It was a moonlight evening. Eugene was pacing 
the deck, in so happy a frame of mind, that he won- 
dered at himself, when he again beheld " La Belle 
Clementine'''' — he had once more involuntarily re- 
stored to her the familiar name by which, during 
the last two years, he had ceased to designate her 
in thought. 

She came towards him as rapidly as the motion 
of the vessel would permit, with an air of mingled 
timidity and frankness. He hastened to offer his 
arm ; she hesitated — but the lurching of the vessel 
per force overcame her unwillingness to accept its 
support. 

"I came to thank you — no, not to thank you — 
that is impossible ; you have given me life itself, 
and all the thanks I could utter — " 

Eugene interrupted her — " would but pain me. 
Do not thank me for purchasing the greatest happi- 
ness that was ever mine by an act which is one of 
simple justice to you." 

The eyes which Clementine lifted to his face 
looked wondrously blue in the moonlight ; woman- 



264 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

ly instinct taught her that he would accept their 
thanks, while he refused those of her lips. 

The passage was long, for the ship was often be- 
calmed, but the days were all too short for Eugene. 
He loved " La Belle Clementine " as fervently as 
ever ; or rather, he now loved the true Clementine, 
whose mind and heart were daily revealed to him, 
not the creature of his imagination, to whom she 
bore so little resemblance. 

And Clementine, how was it with her ? Alas ! 
how alone could it be ? Her early passion for Yic- 
torien had been as mad as Eugene's infatuation for 
her former self, and, like his, was the mere idolatry 
of an ideal ; but this man, who had loved her so 
many years ; this man, who had brought the light 
of hope, beaming from his face, into her prison 
house — who had broken her chains, restored her 
to life — was it wonderful that in his presence she 
walked in paradise ? 

But in the heart of a true woman love is indis- 
solubly united to boundless generosity. And when 
Eugene asked Clementine to be his wife, though 
her frame thrilled with joy as her ears drank in the 
delicious words, she did not betray by the quivering 
of a muscle her internal ecstacy. She had long 
known that his noble and generous nature would 
not let him shrink from offering her the safe shelter 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 265 

of his heart, the shield of his name, and she had 
pondered well over her course. 

In reply to his prayer, she calmly pictured to him 
what his future life would inevitably be if she had 
returned his affection — {iff oh, holy hypocrite!) — 
if she had consented to become his wife ; and she 
painted what her own misery would have been 
when she felt him dragged down and shut out 
from fellowship with his equals, by his union with 
a pardoned convict — greater misery, she added, 
vehemently, than she had endured at Cayenne — 
aye, far greater ! 

The Count de Eosier, she said, had still a career 
of honor and usefulness before him ; he could 
never sink back into the gloom which, through an 
imaginary passion for her, and a too absorbing sym- 
pathy with her misfortunes, had darkened his past 
life. The very memory of the benefits he had 
conferred upon her must brighten the rest of his 
existence. 

As for herself, the good old priest at Cayenne 
had given her a letter to a holy father in Paris. 
She had made up her mind to take such vows as 
the law permitted, and become a Sister of Charity. 
She chose this vocation of her own free will, for 
the Emperor's pardon had been accompanied by a 
gift which secured her independence. She had 
13 



266 LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 

placed half the sum in the hands of her friend, the 
priest, at Cayenne, to be used in ameliorating the 
condition of the convicts ; the other half would go 
to the Order of Sisters which she joined. 

Certes it was not for these purposes that Eugene 
had impoverished himself by diminishing^ his own 
moderate income to half, but there was nothing to 
be done. 

Again and again he pressed his suit — ever with 
the same result. Clementine preserved her secret 
with such wonianly art, that Eugene at last believed 
her true to the villain who had caused her ruin, and 
was compelled to abandon all hope. 

When they parted at the door of the priest to 
whom she had been recommended, Eugene uttered 
one more remonstrance, but this time only against 
her becoming a Sister of Charity. The door had 
just opened to admit her ; for the first time she laid 
her hand in his ; then, with a smile that seemed to 
glorify her face, said, " Be sure it was for that I 
was made ! " and passed from his sight. 

And soon there were sufferers not a few, whose 
grateful voices testified to the truth of these words, 
proclaiming 'that she had indeed God's license to 
minister. 

Eugene had no mental relapse. Ilis care was 
effected in a manner somewhat different from the 



LA BELLE CLEMENTINE. 2G7 

one wliicli Dr. Blanche had planned; but it was 
complete, and all the more permanent because the 
bestowal of half his fortune upon Clementine 
forced him to seek some bread-yielding occupation. 
IN'ow and then, as he passes through the streets 
of Paris, he encounters a Madonna-faced woman, 
wearing the white coif, serge dress, and large white 
collar of the Sisterhood of Charity ; and though her 
meek gray eyes are never raised to any other face, 
recognition of a male not being permitted to her 
order, she smiles upon him with grave sweetness, 
and the smile seems to say, — ' 

" What should I have been but for you ? " 
Eugene cannot doubt that she is happy, and her 
existence of helpful charity, of self-abnegation, and 
peaceful satisfaction, has taught him the wisdom 
of angels who know that, — 

" From deepest woe divinest joy proceeds ; 
No human heart, until it inly bleeds 
Its life away in pure self-sacrifice, 
Can teach to earth the wisdom of the skies." 



CATEKINA SFOEZA. 



THRICE WEDDED, THRICE WmOWED. 
An Italian Chatelaine. 

PAET I. 

Theke is a State Prison in Florence called the 
Micrate, which but a few years ago was the old 
Murate convent, inhabited exclusively by noble 
ladies, who, in weary disgust or penitential sorrow, 
had retired from the storms or allurements of the 
world. In that convent died Cateriua Sforza — 
one of the most lion-hearted, indomitable, yet fasci- 
nating and beautiful women of her age; an im- 
pressive t}^De of the Italian chatelaine of the fif- 
teenth century. 

Caterina's life was replete with those startling in- 
cidents and sudden changes which give to history 
the hiorh coloring: of a sensational romance. She 
was the illeo-itimate dauo-hter of Galeazzo Maria 
Sforza, Duke of Milan, and was born 1462. When 
she had reached her eighth year, the Duke caused 

(268) 



CATEBINA SFOBZA. 269 

her to be " legitimatized,^'' and liis gentle second 
wife, the Duchess Bona, soon after lier marriage, 
affectionately received the precocious child into her 
princely home, and did not ce^se tenderly to watch 
over the little stranger when she herself became a 
mother, nor to give her the precedence due to the 
eldest daughter of the noble house of Sforza. 

It is related of Duke Galeazzo, whose court was 
renowned for its luxury, vice, and splendor, that, 
having exhausted all amusements in turn, he found 
his highest enjoyment in v\^itnessing tortures, execu- 
tions, and cruel mntilations. The sight of death 
and human decay excited in him such ferocious de- 
light, that he even frequented charnel-houses, and 
caused graves to be torn open that he might gaze 
upon corruption. 

When Caterina was eleven years years of age she 
was publicly betrothed, by proxy, to Girolamo Ria- 
rio, a nephew of Pope Sixtus lY. 

" The great Galeazzo," the " sujperh Duke^^ lived 
but thirty-two years to blot the 'annals of history 
with the record of his unsurpassed abominations. 
In December of the year 1476, three youths, one of 
whom came to avenge a sister whom the Duke had 
brought to shame, waited for their sovereign at the 
door of the Cathedral of St. Stephen's, and although 



270 CATERINA SFORZA. 

the Duke was surrounded by his guards, stabbed him 
mortallj^ 

In May, 14Y7, Caterina was married, by proxy, at 
Milan, to Girolamo Eiario, whom she had not yet 
seen. The recent death of the Duke forbade all 
festivities, and the youthful bride departed immedi- 
ately to join her bridegroom at Eome. She had 
smiled upon only fifteen birthdays when, accompa- 
nied by her bridegroom, and mounted upon a richly 
caparisoned steed, she rode through the Porta del 
Poj^olo into Rome. Slie was eminently beautiful 
and superbly attired, and, as she passed through the 
Piazza of the famed old Pantheon^ in the midst of 
a brilliant cavalcade, to the magnificent residence 
of her husband, on the banks of the Tiber, all Rome 
grew wild with enthusiastic admiration. 

The Palazzo Corsini now rears its noble walls 
where the Riario palace then stood. 

Caterina's influence soon became all-powerful 
with Pope Sixtus and his court; it is said the 
princes of Italy who had any favors to ask of the 
Apostolic See had only to secure her intercession to 
obtain their wishes. 

Shortly after his bridal, Girolamo, wdth much 
ceremon}^, was made a citizen of Rome. Later, he 
received from the Pope investiture of the city and 
county of Forli^ one of the most important towns of 



CATEBINA 8F0BZA. 271 

Homagna^ and near ttie principality of Imola^ 
brought to him by his wife. He was also made 
generalissimo -of the Papal forces. 

On Easter Day, the 26th of April, 1478, Lorenzo 
de Medici, called the "Magnificent," and his 
brother Giuliano, were stabbed by assassins in the 
cathedi'al at Florence — Giuliano, mortally; Lo- 
renzo not fatally. Florentine historians declare 
that Girolamo was one of the conspirators who 
planned the infamous deed, and one writer adds, 
" These things were ordered by Pope Sixtus, to take 
away the dominion of Florence from Lorenzo de 
Medici, and give it to Count Girolamo." 

It was well known that Girolamo, who had the 
highest appreciation of Caterings superior intellect, 
consulted her upon all state affairs; but that he 
made her the confidante of this murderous project 
seems improbable. She was but sixteen, and about 
to become a mother; there is no proof that she 
had any knowledge of her husband's crime. 

The first infant to whom she gave birth was a 
daughter, Bianca, whose sex occasioned her parents 
severe and undisguised disappointment — a disap- 
pointment, however, which was not repeated, for 
Caterina never bore another daughter, though she 
gave birth to numerous sons. To no woman could 



272 CATEBINA SFORZ± 

liave been more appropriately applied Shakespeare's 
adjuration, 

"Bring forth men children only, 
For thv Undaunted mettle should compose 
Nothing but males 1 " 

The next year a son, Ottaviano, was bom, and a 
second son the succeedins^ vear. 

After passing four years in. Home, Girolamo and 
his Touno^ wife, for the first time, visited their 
dominions of Forli and Imola. The journey occu- 
pied eight days, and the cortege of the youthful 
couple resembled a triumphal procession, termina- 
ting with a train of horses in rich housings, mules 
bearing heavy loads or drawing well-filled carts, 
and each mule-load covered with an embroidered 
cloth, showing the arms of Hovere and Sforza, and 
bound with silken cords, and each cart similarly 
protected. 

The citizens of Forli hailed with exuberant dem- 
onstrations of joy the entrance of all this wealth 
into their city. Yoimg men, and maidens dressed 
in white, and bearing olive-branches iu their hands, 
preceded by the clergy and magistrates in their 
robes of office, went out to welcome their sove- 
rei2:ns. The Count and Countess descended from 
their horses and received them standing. Every 
one was charmed by the beauty of Caterina, who 
wore her most gorgeous gala dress, and her costliest 



CATERINA SFOnZA, 273 

pearls and diamonds. The homage of the city was 
offered in a very choice oration, and in replying, the 
Count was pleased to remit the corn duties, which 
gave, great satisfaction. 

For three days there were public rejoicings 
throughout Forli. In the principal square a tourna- 
ment was held, in which the Roman princes joined. 
A vast wooden castle was constructed in the middle 
of the piazza, and besieged and defended by two 
parties of the town-people. A reward was given to 
the first of the besieging party who entered. Un- 
fortunately it cost the youth who accomplished the 
feat an eye. 

Then there was a grand ball, at which the Count 
and Countess led the dance, and, says the historian, 
^' there were, of course, triumphal arches, allegorical 
paintings, cunning carpentry, devices moving by 
unseen means ; eating, drinldng, and speechifying, 
in prose and verse, to a wonderful extent. And 
charming it was to see the lady Countess and all her 
damsels come forth in different mas^nificent dresses 
every day for a whole week, and the great buffets, 
ten feet high, in the banqueting-hall of the palace, 
loaded every day with a fresh service of silver and 
gold." 

Far different was the scene that palace was to 
witness when a few years had swept on ! 
12* 



274: CATEHmA SFORZA, 

Tlie Youthful coiij)le, after they had sojourned in 
Forli nearly a month, yisited Imola, where the fes- 
tive welcome was repeated in a more moderate 
manner. 

The Count occupied himself in the improvement 
of both cities; schools were established, palaces 
enlarged, public squares adorned, streets paved, 
and an academy of fine arts instituted. 

The first visit of the Count and Caterina to Imola 
was but short. After a sojourn of three weeks thej 
left for Venice, to carry out certain ambitious views 
of the Pope. It is expressly stated that Caterina 
accompanied her husband because he so thoroughly 
relied upon her counsel and judgment. He was 
not, however, successful in his mission, though 
Venice received the noble guests with imstinted 
pomp and multiplied festivities in their honor. 

Shortly after the retmni of the Count and Coun- 
tess to Imola, they received news from Tolentino, 
the trusty Governor of Forli, of a conspiracy which 
had for its object the restoration of the dynasty of the 
Ordelaffi, the ancient masters of Forli, from wliom 
it liad been unrighteously wrested by the Pope. 
The conspirators had agreed to assassinate Girolamo 
on his journey from Imola to Forli. The Count and 
Countess hastened to Forli on hearing these tidings, 
for the danscer was over, and after a brief stay there, 



CATERINA 8F0BZA. 275 

returned to Rome. On the tenth day following 
their departure, the four corpses of the conspirators 
were seen dangling from the windows of the Palazzo 
Pubblico. 

Girolamo was now called upon to head the Papal 
troops, and to give battle to the ^Neapolitans near 
Yelletri. In company with Robert Malatesta, who 
commanded the Venetians, he won a great victory, 
marched in triumph back to Rome, and presented 
the banners, taken in battle, to his exulting Countess. 

Robert Malatesta died of fever soon after the con- 
quest he had gained, and his death was attributed 
to poison administered by Girolamo out of military 
jealousy. 

Rome had begun to be the scene of great distress 
and discontent. There was a scarcity of grain, of 
wine, and provisions ; and the deadly feud between 
the implacable Colonna and the furious Orsini^ 
kept the Eternal City in a constant state of anarchy. 
The Pope and Girolamo warmly espoused the cause 
of the Orsini. In March, 1484, all the Orsini 
headed by Girolamo, armed themselves, and attacked 
one of the palaces of the Colonna. A fearful tumult 
was the sequence : the houses not only of the Col-- 
onna, but of many private citizens, were sacked, and 
all manner of atrocities committed. 
• In the midst of these disturbances Pope Sixtus 



276 CATERLS'A SFOBZA. 

died, on the 12th of August. 14:84 ; and great was 
the change for Caterina and Girolamo, whom Eome 
now hatei Caterina was alone, for Girolamo was 
driving the Colonna ont of their fortresses in the 
neighborhood of the city. She was a woman of great 
eneigv, and prompt in her decisions ; she saw her 
danger, and immediately took possession of the Cas- 
tle of St. Angelo, in the name of her husband, as 
commander of the forces, and during the first out- 
bnrst of anarchy that followed the Pontiffs death, 
she and her children were safe. 

Girolamo returned to Ec-me. to find his palace 
ntterly devastated. Even the marble doorways 
and window-cases were wrenched off and carried 
away, and the gardens and green-honses torn and 
trampled into ruins. Girolamo deemed it wise to 
leave Eome with his wife and children. They 
arrived at Forli on the 4th of September. 
How different had been their entrance into that 
city only a few short years before ! "Where, now, was 
the festive welcome i Where, now, were the olive 
branches and rejoicings, the ball and tournament ? 
They were met in silence. 

During the next four years evil auguries multi- 
plied. Girclamo needed money, and re-imposed the 
taxes he had taken off; this, and his other well- 



CATERINA 8F0RZA. 277 

known misdeeds, daily increased his unpopularity, 
and rendered liis position perilous. 

Caterina became the mother of three more sons 
during those four years. 

An event of great importance marked this fourth 
year. Tolentino, the faithful Governor of Forli, 
who once warned Girolamo of the conspiracy against 
him, had died, and one Melchior Zocchejo,of Savona, 
a ferocious and worthless man, had been appointed 
Castellano of Ravaldino^ the magnificent fortress 
built at Forli, by Girolamo. Codronchi, the senes- 
chal of the palace, who had formed an intimacy 
with Zocchejo, managed one night to introduce sev- 
eral bravoes, in the guise of servants, into the fort, 
killed Zocchejo, and became master of the fortress. 
It was supposed the Codronchi had been won over 
by the Ordelaffi, and that the fortress and the city 
were lost to the Count and Countess. When a 
messenger reached Imola with these terrible tidings, 
the Count was too ill to travel, and Caterina was 
daily expecting her fifth confinement ; yet, prompt 
and undismayed as ever, she mounted her horse, and 
by midnight was before the gate of the Ravaldino, 
calling upon Codronchi to account for his conduct. 

The seneschal appeared upon the battlements, and 
entreated the lady to seek repose, and retm-n in the 



'2. i 5 CATERINA SFOBZA. 

morning and breakfast at the fort, as he could say 
no more that nio^ht. 

Caterina had no alternative but to accept the in- 
Titation, and withdravr. The next morning she re- 
appeared before the walls, ^vith attendants bearing 
provisions for an excellent breakfast. She vras told 
that no one but herself and one servant to carry the 
breakfast would be admitted. The brave Caterina 
reflected a few moments; if the man had' been 
bought over by the Ordelaffi, if she trusted herself 
within tliose walls, her fate was sealed ; but what 
could she accomplish if she did not run the risk? 
Her counsellors strongly advised her to refuse to 
enter, but she boldly passed in with the groom who 
bore the provisions. 

After a brief stay she came forth, and sent for 
Tommaso Feo, one of her most highly esteemed 
friends, and returned into the fortress with him. 
Codronchi gave over the command into his hands. 
Feo was left as Castellano^ aiid Caterina, with Cod- 
ronchi, proceeded to the Palazzo Pubblico, where a 
great crowd had assembled. 

The Countess addressed the citizens in these 
words : " Know, my men of Forli, that Pavaldino 
was lost to me and to the city, by the means of this 
Innocenzio Codronchi here; hut Ih<wve recovered it, 
and have left it in right trusty liandsl" 



CATEBINA 8F0RZA. 279 

The seneschal confessed himself a traitor, by re- 
maTking that " it was true enough ! " 

What persuasions Caterina employed to induce 
him to yield up the fortress, are not recorded ; but 
it was saved by her voice only. 

On leaving the Palazzo Pubblico, the Countess and 
Codronchi mounted their horses and rode to Imola. 
The next morning Caterina gave birth to a son. 

Girolamo soon recovered, and returned with Cat- 
erina to Forli. Shortly after his arrival, one evening, 
at his usual hour of receiving guests, he was leaning 
out of a window of his palace when he was sudden- 
ly stabbed by one of the Orsi family. At this time 
Caterina was twenty-six years of age, and had six 
children. 



PAET II. 



The news of her husband's murder was carried to 
Caterina by an affrighted servant. In spite of the 
horror and consternation of the moment, Caterina, 
as usual, did not lose her presence of mind. She 
sent the man in all haste to tell Feo, the governor 
of the fort, whom she had installed in the summary 
manner we have described, to send couriers to her 
brother, the Duke of Milan, and to the Lord of Bo- 



2S0 CATERINA SFORZA. 

logna. Then she barricaded herself in her chamber, 
with her women, her children, and her young sister 
Stella. But the assassin of Girolamo, ydth half a 
dozen ruffians, attacked tlie door, broke through the 
barricade, and led the Countess and her children 
captive through the crowded streets to the palace 
of the Orsi, who had ever been her bitterest foes, and 
were now her husband's murderers. 

The body of the hated tyrant had been thrown 
from the window into the piazza^ and the mob tore 
off the clothing and dragged the corpse naked 
through the streets, until some pitying friars got 
possession of the mangled remains, and carried them 
into the sacristy of their church. 

Cardinal Savelli, who was leaojued with the con- 
spirators, visited Caterina, and suggested that she 
and her family would be safer in a small but strong 
building over St. Peter's gateway. Caterina unhes- 
itatingly agreed to the change, preferring any prison 
to the palace of her husband's destroyer. 

That night, the loth of April, a troop of soldiers 
bearing torches marched the beautiful and haughty 
Countess, her mother, her sister Stella, her six chil- 
dren, two imrses, and a natural son of her husband, 
through the streets to her new prison ; and here 
they were all confined together, in an exceedingly 
small I'oom. 



CATEniNA 8F0RZA. 281 

It is worthy of note, that CateriDa, herself an 
illegitimate child, who had been tenderly nurtured 
by her father's wife, had been mindful to repay the 
debt by her care of her husband's illegitimate off- 
spring. 

On the day following Caterina's removal to 
prison. Cardinal Savelli and the conspirators or- 
dered Feo, the Governor of Ravaldino, to deliver 
up the fortress. Feo, of course, refused. Then Ca- 
terina was conducted to the foot of the vx^alls, and 
compelled to order the Castellano to yield the fort, 
that he might thus save her life. The Governor 
looking down upon her from the ramparts, and tho- 
roughly comprehending, from his knowledge of her 
character, what her real wishes must be, remained 
firm in his refusal. 

Caterina was led back to prison, and that night 
the faithful servant who had brought her the news 
of her husband's death, and had carried her mes- 
sage to the Governor of the fortress, secretly gained 
admission to her. She bade him tell Feo to 
hold out hope of yielding the fortress, when the 
demand was again made, but to stipulate that she 
should first enter alone, that they might converse 
freely. This same trusty servant, acting on Cateri 
na's suggestion, also saw the Cardinal, and dexter- 
ously hinted that the surest mode of inducing Feo 



282 CATEEINA SFORZA. 

to yield was to allow him to have a private inter- 
view with the Countess. 

The next day, Caterina, as she had anticipated, 
was again taken to the fortress, and the Cardinal 
himself proposed to Feo that she shonld be allowed 
to enter, asking if he would obey her orders if he 
found she was not acting upon compulsion. Feo 
cautiously replied, that, after conversing with his 
mistress, he would do whatever seemed tx) him his 
duty. 

Caterina was allowed to enter unattended, with 
the understanding that she was to come forth in 
three hours. During those hours a noisy and im- 
patient multitude waited in front of the ramparts. 

The great bell of the jpiazza told that the three 
hours had expired ; the murmuring voices sank to 
silence, all was hushed expectation, when, in obedi- 
ence to the summons of a trumpet, Feo appeared 
upon the battlements. 

With the utmost sang froid he informed the eager 
crowd that his lady was much fatigued ; that as soon 
as she entered the fort, he had compelled her to seek 
repose ; that she was now asleep, and he did not 
choose to disturb her ; that when she awoke, he did 
not intend to permit her to go forth, as he judged 
that she was safer in the fortress. 

Having spoken these words, he withdrew. 



CATEUINA 8F0RZA. 283 

The crowd became furious; the Cardinal saw 
that he had been duped. The Orsi rushed to the 
prison, seized Caterina's children, hurried them to 
the walls of the fortress, summoned the Castellano^ 
and bade him tell his mistress that their lives de- 
pended upon her keeping her promise. 

Feo replied in the most imperturbable manner, 
that he would carry no such message; and he 
warned the citizens of Forli ta reflect upon the 
inevitable consequences to themselves if they suf- 
fered those children, the nephev/s of the Duke of 
Milan, and protected by the Lord of Bologna, to 
receive the slightest injury. 

The enraged and baffled Orsi, the Cardinal, and 
the citizens knew too well how much reason there 
was in this menace ; and the children were carried 
back to their prison unharmed. 

But the father of the Orsi, a veteran of eighty- 
five years, who had been engaged in seven insurrec- 
tions, severely rebuked his sons for sparing the chil- 
dren, and warned them that they had committed a 
fatal error in allowing Caterina to enter an impreg- 
nable fortress. By his advice they at once de- 
spatched messengers to Rome, to lay the obedience 
of the city at the feet of the Pontiff, and urge him 
to send troops and munitions for their defence. 



284 CATEBINA SFORZA. 

Meantime, on the 17th, the fort was attacked, 
and Feo in return bombarded the city. 

On the 18th, a herald from the Lord of Bologna 
arrived in Forli, and made proclamation that the 
city would be entirely destroyed if any harm was 
done to the children of the Count, and demanded 
that Caterina should be set at liberty, and her eldest 
son Ottaviano proclaimed Count of Forli. 

Cardinal Savelli gave answer to the herald, that 
the Countess was already at liberty, that her children 
were safe, but that Ottaviano could not be pro- 
claimed Count of Forli, as an embassy had been 
sent to Home to lay the fealty of the city at the feet 
of the Pope. 

On the 20th came letters from the Duke of Mi- 
lan, one reproving the Cardinal Savelli, and one or- 
dering the citizens to send away the Cardinal and 
return to their allegiance, or abide the consequences 
of a refusal. 

The next day, two heralds, one from the Duke of 
Milan and one from the Lord of Bologna, rode 
into the great square of Forli, and demanded the 
children of the Count. 

Checco (TOrsi^ who slew their father, insolently 
replied tliat the children had already been put to 
death, and that Forli feared neither the Duke of 
Milan, nor the Lord of Bologna, as the Pope's troops 



CATEBINA SFORZA. 285 

would be within the gates before the Milanese could 
reach the city. 

Pope Innocent YIII., however, had no intention 
of taking part in the fray, and though Cardinal Sa- 
velli forged a letter from the Pope, promising 
speedily to send troops, its authenticity was gener- 
ally doubted. 

Savelli continued to attack the citadel with can- 
non, and Feo continued to batter the city from his 
ramparts, until, on the 29th, the armies of the Duke 
of Milan and the Bolognese were before the walls 
of Forli. At this crisis, papers signed by Caterina 
were scattered about the streets, soon after dark, 
entreating her loyal subjects to ^ut to death the 
conspirators, and promising rewards to every man 
whose dagger was thus employed. 

The Orsi tried to obtain, by stratagem, possession 
of Caterina's children, but failed, and fled from the 
city on the 30th of April. 

If Caterina had acted in accordance with the cus- 
tom of those days, she would have given Forli up to 
be sacked by the soldiers who had come to her res- 
cue; but she saved her subjects from this chastise- 
ment, and announced to them that they were spared 
for the sake of the women of Forli, though the 
men had not deserved mercy at her hand^. 

The magistrates went in procession to Caterina 



^SG CATERmA SFOnZA. 

in the fortress, and delivered to her the key of the 
city. She made a triumphal entrance on horseback, 
between the generals of the forces sent to support 
her. 

It is easy to conceive the affecting meeting be- 
tween Caterina and her children. Ottaviano, nine 
years of age, was proclaimed Count and his mother 
made "Regent," and the murdered Girolamo was 
buried with great pomp at Imola. 

Caterina's sister Stella, who was betrothed to one 
Andrea Ricci, had, some time before this, found 
means to leave the Gatehouse prison and hasten to 
his bedside ; for he was lying ill of the wounds he 
had received in the general light that occurred im- 
mediately after Girolamo was murdered. She was 
hastily united to her wounded lover, and then per- 
mitted to depart with her mother to Cesena. 

Clemency was not esteemed a virtue in those 
days, and Caterina was far more merciful than the 
code of her age justified. Only a few who had 
taken part in the conspiracy were executed ; among 
them the man who threw the Count's body out of 
the window, and tlie veteran Orsi^ whose great age 
caused him to be left behind when his children fled. 

His chastisement was terrible. Before he was 
executed, he was brought forth, his long silver locks 
flowing on his shoulders, his hands bound behind 



CATEBINA SFORZA. 287 

his back, a halter about his neck, and conducted by 
the hangman through the streets, and placed in 
front of his ancestral home, which was razed to the 
ground before his eyes. Haviug witnessed that 
sight, far more terrible to him than death itself, the 
old patrician was led, by the halter, back to the 
piazza and bound upon a stout plank, which was 
attached to the tail of a powerful horse. The feet 
of the prisoner were nearest to the horse ; the head, 
passing beyond the length of the board, fell back 
upon the stones: in this manner he was dragged 
twice around the piazza, and before he was quite 
dead, his side was opened, and his heart torn out 
and rent to pieces before the people. 

Caterina was a young and exceedingly beautiful 
widow, and the aspirants to her hand were not few. 
She was a woman to choose according to the dic- 
tates of her heart, but her maternal instincts were 
too strong for her to imperil the interests of her 
children. 

Feo, the faithful governor of the citadel, had a 
brother not yet twenty years of age, a rem^-rkably 
handsome youth, who is described as " well skilled 
in all manly and noble exercises." Feo had mar- 
ried a relative of the Countess, and after this union 
the brothers were freely admitted into the society 
of the Countess. 



288 CATEPJSA SFOBZA. 

That Caterina very soon became enamored of this 
Tonng and captivating Giacomo Feo, there can be 
no doubt, and she conceived the idea of giving him 
his brother's pkce as Governor of Havaldino. But 
how was this to be accomplished? She coukl 
hardly dismiss Tommasso Feo, who had obeyed lier 
orders so faithfully, and to whose allegiance slie 
owed, perhaps, her hfe. It is even suggested by 
historians, that as it is a good ca-stellano^s duty to 
hold his castle at all hazards, it would not have 
been an easy matter to displace Tommasso Feo, by 
ordering him to give up his command. 

Caterina, as we have seen, had an abundance of 
woman's wit at her command, to effect any object 
upon which she had set her heart. She gave a 
splendid yc^^^ in her gardens outside of the city, and 
invited her castellano. Throughout the day she 
leaned upon his arm, and toward evening requested 
him to escort her throusrh the little city to her 
palace; thus taking him captive, while he was 
unsuspicious, and only flattered by the distinction. 
Once within the palace walls, he was politely de- 
sired to yield up his sword, and informed that he 
was a prisoner. He saw at once that he had been 
caught in a trap, and made no resistance. 

Giacomo was then summoned, and the Countess 
informed him that, although she had the highest 



CATERINA SFOBZA. 289 

confidence in his brother, she had found it desirable 
for Tommasso to visit his native Savon a, and that 
Giacomo was to fill his vacant post, and become 
governor of the fort. 

There is reason to suppose that, at this very time, 
Giacomo had for some months been married to the 
Countess. Although the union was perfectly legal, 
it was kept secret, because Caterina would cease to 
be the guardian of her children, if it could be 
proved that she had contracted a second marriage. 

A few months after the new governor was in- 
stalled, Caterina gave birth to a son, who was 
named Giacomo, 



PART m. 

Caterina delighted in showering favors upon her 
young husband. She obtained for him, from the 
Duke of Milan, an order of chivalry. All the cus- 
tomary insignia were sent by heralds from that 
sumptuous court. Great were the festive rejoic- 
ings, and the devoted wife took care that Giacomo 
should be invested with the cloak, collar, and spurs, 
by the noblest knights of the highest families in 
Forli. 

Her marriage did not render her a less exemplary 



290 CATEUINA SFOBZA. 

mother ; she still personally sapermtended the edu- 
cation of her children, and took untiring pains to 
promote their welfare. 

Pope Innocent VIII. died, and Cardinal Kode- 
rigo Borgia succeeded him as Pope Alexander YI. 
History testifies that the life of this pontiff was a 
series of the most detestable and open crimes. A 
strong friendship had existed between Cardinal Bor- 
gia and Caterina's first husband, and when the Car- 
dinal was elected to the papal throne, she thought 
it politic to despatch two envoys in behalf of Forli 
and two in behalf of Imola to compliment the 
Pope on his election, and offer the homage of both 
cities. 

A few years later, in the summer of 1494, Charles 
YII. of France laid claim to the sovereignty of 
]:>^aples, and marched into Italy. Forli was in a 
dangerous position between the Neapolitan troops 
at Cesena and the French troops at Bologna ; and 
Caterina was forced to side with one party or the 
other. After more than usual hesitation, for 
promptness of decision was her especial character- 
istic, she declared herself the ally of the king of 
]S"aples, on condition that Eome and Naples agreed 
to defend her states, and that her son, Ottaviano, 
iiovv' seventeen years old, received the rank of gen- 
eral in the allied army, witli a large stipend. The 



CATEBINA 8F0BZA, 291 

Frencli, however, met with unexpected successes. 
Forli was not protected as stipulated, and Caterina 
deliberately changed sides and made friends with 
the victors. 

During this period the young Giacomo Feo had 
acted as governor-general of Caterina's states ; and 
she finally obtained for him from the King of 
France the rank and title of general It is re- 
corded that Giacomo was highly elated by this dis- 
tinction ; but alas ! his promotion proved a fatal 
boon : it awakened the jealousy of the citizens of 
Imola and Forli, and seven of them took a vow 
that they would kill the pampered favorite. 

On the 27tli of August, 1495, Giacomo went 
hunting with Caterina and her sons. When the 
party returned in the evening, Caterina and some of 
her children were in a carriage, behind wdiich came 
Feo on horseback. The seven conspirators had 
grouped themselves just within the city walls, for 
they had sworn to fulfil their oaths that day. After 
Caterina and her sons had j^^^ssed, they suddenly 
rushed upon the newly made general ; a pike 
pierced his body, he uttered but one cr}", and fell 
dead ! Caterina, affrighted by the shrieks of some 
of her retainers, looked back, and saw her husband 
slain, and her attendants flying in all directions. 



292 CATERINA 8F0RZA. 

She and her sons hastily mounted horses taken from 
the grooms, and galloped to the fortress. 

At the age of thirty-three, the heroic chatelaine 
was for the second time a widow, and again the 
widow of a murdered husband ! 

There was a strong manifestation of popular 
indignation in Forli against the assassins. That 
night they were hunted through the town, and the 
next morning carried to the piazza, where some 
were quartered alive, some dragged by horses 
through the streets. 

In those days, in Italy, the whole male portion of 
the family of a political conspirator was included 
in his condemnation ; but the vengeance of Caterina 
was not limited to sex. Even the women, children, 
and babes of the guilty men were brutally slaugh- 
tered at her command ; not one babe was spared ! 
She had never before evinced such a degree of sav- 
age, pitiless cruelty, though its exercise was entirely 
in accordance with the creed of her time. Be- 
tween forty and fifty persons were put to death to 
avenge the murder of Giacomo; and while the 
bodies of the criminals were hanging from the win- 
dows of the Palazzo PuhUico, Feo was buried 
with even greater pomp than his murdered prede- 
cessor, Girolamo. 

Caterina's temperament was too elastic and her 



CATEHmA SFORZA. 293 

mind too vigorous for even grief to render it inac- 
tive. She found in incessant occupation a balm for 
her sorrow. During the first two years of her 
widowhood she sought distraction by tearing down 
the palace at Forli, to which such odious associa- 
tions were attached, and buildinof one more mamifi- 
cent, near to the fortress Eavaldino. She purchased 
a large tract of land adjoining the new palace, and 
cultivated orchards, and dairy pastures, and beauti- 
ful gardens and pleasure grounds, and hunting 
grounds, until the only fitting name for the rural 
Elysium with which she had encompassed herself 
was pronounced to be " The Paradise." 

In the third year of her widowhood, Caterina 
formed a third alliance — from motives of policy 
and ambition, it is supposed, rather than of affec- 
tion. Again she chose a husband younger than her- 
self. She was then thirty-five, and her third bride- 
groom, Giovanni de Medici, ambassador from the 
Republic of Florence to Forli, and great grandson 
of that Giovanni who was the founder of the Medi- 
cean greatness, was but thirty. Caterina's third 
husband, though he fought bravely under Charles 
YIII, of France, and was a wise statesmaii, holds 
no conspicuous place in history. 

Her nuptials were again kept secret, for the same 



294 GATEBINA SFOBZA. 

reason which had before rendered concealment im- 
perative. 

Tha offspring of this union was the only one of 
Caterina's children who became renowned. The 
son to Y/hom she gave birth in the first year of this 
marriage became that celebrated Giovanni Delle 
Baiide J^ere, who was looked iipon as the greatest 
captain of his day, and from whom descended the 
long line of Tuscan Grand Dukes of the Medicean 
race. He was Caterina's eighth child and seventh 
son. 

Caterina's third husband was in delicate health at 
the time of their union, and he died six months 
after the birth of his son, in the second year of his 
marriage. 

Pope Alexander, in spite of the "homage" paid 
him by Caterina, when he was called to the Papal 
throne, soon manifested unfriendly intentions. 
This unscrupulous Borgia had sons, whom he did 
not even pretend (according to the custom of Popes) 
were his nephews. To enrich these sons was his 
first care, and under various pretexts he declared 
sundry little potentates of Komagna deposed from 
their sovereignties, and Caterina among them. But, 
with her wonted bravery, she defied the Pope him- 
self, and determined "to preserve her son's sceptre 



CATERINA SFORZA. 295 

for him as long as the walls of the city and fortress 
would liold together." 

Louis XII. (who succeeded Charles YIII.) entered 
into a league with Pope Alexander, and undertook 
to seize the Duchy of Milan ; while Cesare Borgia, 
the Pope's eldest son, took possession of Imola and 
Forli, and other principalities of Pomagna. Borgia 
appeared with his army before the walls of Imola ; 
the city was quickly forced to surrender, but not so 
the Castellano of the fortress, who made answer 
that he would only yield when the fort was in ruins. 

Caterina and her son Ottaviano were preparing 
to defend Forli. She personally superintended the 
repairing of the fortifications, and Ottaviano labored 
with his own hands. But the citizens of Forli 
showed but little inclination to resist the Borgia ; 
and Caterina retired into the citadel with her per- 
sonal adherents, fu-st sending Ottaviano to Tuscany, 
to secure his personal safety. When €he found all 
her efforts to rouse the city in vain, the resolute 
chatelaine opened the guns of her fortress upon 
Forli, as a punishment for the desertion of her vas- 
sals. 

On the 10th of December, 1499, Cesare Borgia 
marched into Forli. T. A. Trollope says of this 
triumphal entry, " The troops and their officers hav- 
ing filed into the city before him, the great man — 



296 CATEBINA 8F0RZA. 

most wicked, base, and incapable of any great or 
noble thouglit, of all men tliere ; the great man 
most reverenced, admired, obeyed of all men there, 
— advanced stately, in full armor, on a white horse, 
with a heraldically embroidered silk tunic over his 
armor, a tall white plume nodding above his hel- 
met, and in his hand a long green lance, the point of 
which rested on the toe of his boot." 

But a sudden storm dispersed the procession, and 
the soldiers rushed about the city, finding lodgings 
wherever they chose — turning the Council-hall into 
a tavern, making themselves masters alike of the 
public palace and. private residences, and to all in- 
tents and purposes sacking the city into which they 
had been admitted as friends ; thus the citizens 
were most unexpectedly and doubly chastised for 
not rallying around their liege lady. 

Borgia, after having twice parleyed with Caterina, 
attacked the fortress towards the end of December. 
For a week she defended herself ably ; then a truce 
of a few days was agreed upon, and the attack was 
renewed on the 10th of January. At mid-day on 
the 12th, a breach was nearly practicable, and later 
on the same day a fire broke out in the fort, which 
paralyzed the garrison, and the principal part of the 
fortifications fell into the hands of the enemy. But 
the undaunted Caterina retired into the principal 



CATERINA 8F0RZA. 297 

tower, and held her ground. A large nnmber of 
the enemy had penetrated into another tower, which 
served a magazine, and there met a terrible fate ; 
for it was fired by Caterina's people, though appar- 
ently not by her order. 

Borgia again demanded parley, and Caterina ap- 
peared at the window of her tower ; but while she 
was standing there, reiterating her refusal to yield, 
a French soldier, who had found some means of ac- 
cess to the tower, came behind her, and made her 
prisoner, in the name of the General. 

That night Borgia and the French General visited 
the haughty lady in her citadel, and it is recorded 
that during the interview "the sound^ of falling 
masonry and exploding mines, the shouts of the pur- 
suers, and the cries of the conquered as they fell, 
ever and anon came through the thick walls, and 
gave clear evidence of the work of destruction which 
was in progress." 

Towards the close of January, Borgia returned to 
Rome with his noble captive. 

Caterina, arrayed in a black satin dress, made the 
journey on horseback, riding between Borgia and 
a French General. Once more she entered 
Rome ; through that Porta del Popolo, which she 
had first passed in triumphal procession, clothed in 
bridal robes, a joyous and beautiful bride of sixteen. 



298 CATERINA SFORZA. 

welcomed by the whole city, she now rode, con- 
quered and despoiled, robed in black, thrice wedded 
and thrice widowed, with a Tictorious foe on either 
side of her rudely uncaparisoned steed ! She was 
led to the Vatican, which in those unforgotten days 
had so often been filled with cringing courtiers, too 
happy to receive a smile or a word from the Pope's 
favorite — now to be stared at, pitied, or disdained 
as a Pope's prisoner. 

An apartment in the Belmdere of the Vatican 
was made her place of confinement. Four months 
later she was accused of having attempted the life 
of the Pope, by endeavoring to send him letters ren- 
dered contagious by being placed upon the breast of 
one who was dying of the plague. Although this 
accusation could not be supported, it was rendered 
the pretext for transferring her from the Belmdere 
to the dungeons of the Castle of St. Angelo, where it 
was no doubt intended that she should find a living 
tomb. 

She owed her life to the interposition and remon- 
strances of Louis XII. As she had been captured by 
one of his Generals, his voice could not remain un- 
heeded by the Pope. After only four days' incar- 
ceration she was liberated, at the French King's re- 
quest, and allowed to travel unmolested to Florence, 
wliere all lier children had found a refuge. 



CATERINA SFORZA, 299 

She was only thirty-nine years of age ; but into 
those thirty-nine years what a multitude of thrilling 
events had been crowded ! She was wearied out, 
crushed, spirit-conquered at last ; she had done 
with life — the life of the world ; even the presence 
of her children could no longer render that outer 
world endurable. She at once retired to the Convent 
of the Murate, and never again passed its walls. 

She died in 1509, in the forty-seventh year of her 
age, and was buried in the chapel of the convent, 
where her monument was visible until a few years 
ago, when the convent was converted into a State- 
prison. 

" Non v' ha cosa infinite, que gui." 



THE END. 




LIST OF BOOKS PUSLISEEL 



Mrs* MaiT J« Holmes' l¥ork», 



A novel i2mo. cloth, %i. 



'LENA RITEBS. — 

DARKNESS AND DATLTOHT. — . do. . dO. . $1. 

TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. — . dO. . do. . $1. 

MARIAN GHET.— . . . dO. . do. . j>I. 

MEADOW BROOK. — . , . do. o dO. , $1 

SUGLISH ORPHANS. — , • do. . do. . $1. 

CORA DEANE. — . . , dO. dO. . $1. 

COUSIN MAUDE. — . . , do. . do. . $1. 

HOMESTEAD ON THE HTLLSIDE. — do. . dO. . $1. 

HUGH WORTHINQTON. . . dO. . dO. . jJl. 

THE CAMESON PBIDK. . . do. . dO. . $1. 

BOSB MATHER. . . , do. . do. . $1. 

ETHEL yn's MISTAKE. — Just PuMished. do. , do. . $1. 
Miss Angnsta J. Evans. 

BEULAH. — A novel of great power. . i2mo. cloth, $i. 

MACARIA. — • do. do. . do. . $1. 

RT. ELMO. — do. do. do. . $2. 

VASHTi.— do. do. yusf Published, do . $2. 

Victor Hugo. 

E3 MisliRABLES. — The Celebrated novel. One large 8vo v 

ume, paper covers, $2.00 ; . . . cloth bound, $2. 

LES MiSERABLES. — Spanish. Two vols., paper, $4.00 ; cl., $5, 

Mrs. A. P. Hill. 
MRS. hill's new cookery BOOK, and receipts. , . $2. 
Algernon Cliarles Swiubarne. 

LAUS VENERIS, AND OTHER POEMS. . I2m0. cloth, $1. 

Captain 9IaFne Reld's Works— lUnstrated* 
THE SCALP HUNTERS. — A romance. ^ i2mo. cloth, $i. 



THE RIFLE RANGERS. 

THE TIGER HUNTER. 

OSOEOLA, THE SEMINOLE. 

THE WAR TRAIL. 

THE hunter's FEAST. 

BANGERS AND REGULATORS. 
THE WHITE CHIEF. — . 

THE QUADROON. 

THE WILD HUNTRESS. 

tHE WOOD RANGERS. — 

WILD LIFE. 

THE MAROON. . 

IX)8T LEONORE. — 

rHE HEADLESS HORSKMAIT.— 

THE WHITB GAUNTLET, 



do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
Just PubUshtd, 



do. 
do. 
do. 
do 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
da 



50 
50 

SO 
50 

59 
59 
Sa 
so 
SO 
50 
SO 
SO 

75 
75 
00 

,00 

ol- 

.50 
,00 

00 

■75 

•50 
.50 
.50 
.50 
.50 
.50 
.50 
.50 
.50 

50 
50 
•50 
50 
•50 
-Sc 



BY CARLETON, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK. 



A. S. Koe's Works. 

A LONG LOOK AHEAD. A nOVel. 

TO LOVE AND TO BE LOVED. dO. . 

TIME AND TIDE. do. . 

I'vE BEEN THINKING. do. . 

THE STAR AND THE CLOUD. do. . 

TTwUE TO THE LAST. do. . 

HOW COULD HE HELP IT ? do, . 

LIKE AND UNLIKE. do. . 

LOOKING AROUND. do. . 

WOMAN OUR ANGEL. do. . 

THE CLOUD ON THE HEART, Jlist published. 

Ricliard B. Kimball. 

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL ? A nOVCl. 

UNDERCURRENTS. do. 

SAINT LEGER. do. 

ROMANCE OF STUDENT LIFE. do. 

IN THE TROPICS. do. 

HENRY POWERS, Banker. do. 
TO-DAY. — A novel. Just published. 

Josepli Rodman !>rake. 

THE CULPRIT FAY. — A faery poem, with loo illustrations. 
DO. Superbly bound in turkey morocco. 

*' Brick" Pomeroy. 
SENSE. — An illustrated vol. of fireside musings. i2mo. cl., 
NONSENSE. — do. do. comic sketches. do. 

OUR SATURDAY NIGHTS, do. pathos and sentiment. 

Comic Books— Illustrated. 
ARTEMUS WARD, His Book, — Letters, etc. i2mo. cl., 

DO. His Travels — Mormons, etc. do. 

DO. In London. — Punch Letters. do. 

DO. His Panorama and Lecture. do. 

DO. Sandwiches for Railroad. 



i2mo. cloth, 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 

i2mo. cloth, 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 



JOSH BILLINGS ON ICE, and Other thinsfs. — 



i2mo. cl. 



DO. His Book of Proverbs, etc. do. 

DO. Farmer's Allraanax. Just published. 
FANNY FERN. — Folly as it Flics 

DO. Gingersnaps 

VERDANT GREEN. — A racy En.gHsh college story. i2mo. cl., 
CONDENSED NOVELS, ETC. — By F. Bret Harte. do. 

BHLES O'REILLY. — His Book of Advcnturcs. do. 

ORPHEUS c. KERR. — Kerr Papers, 3 vols. do. 

DO. Avery Glibun. A novel. . 

DO. Smoked Glass. . . i2mo. cl., 



$1.50 

$1.50 

$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 

$1.75 
$1.75 
$1-75 
$1.75 

$1.75 
$175 

$: 00 
$i oo 

Si 50 
$1 so 
$1 50 

$1 50 
$1 50 
$1 50 
$1 50 

25 

$1 50 
$1 50 

$1 50 
$1 50 
Si 3^ 
Si-So 
$1.50 

$1.50 
$2.00 
$1.50 



LIST OF BOOKS FUSLISUED 



riilldren's Books— 111 nst rated. 

TEE ABT 0? j^M^TSiyG. — V.'::h 15: :llu5:ri:::is. 12—0. cL. $i.5« 



$1 


-53 


^ 


^5 


$1 


:?• 


. Si 


yZ 


. $1 


.55 



pA?-:::i3 —17- i:t i:77li J7.:iy:5 — . , io 

WTLL-o'-zEz-'^.s?. — From ihe Gerr.2Ji. . do 

?I. r^Ichelefs Remariiable WortLS. 
ly-j^i I'ii::" —Triis^iTti :'::-:-.:-= French. i2ino.cL, $1.50 
wotA-N- La jLiQii , — -:, . . do. $i.?c 

Emest Renan. 

THELiTK 0" jxsrs. — Tr:Ln.5la7cd tt:- iht Fre-:1-, ::~7,:k.S:.-5 

THE APOSTTJES.. — . . 17. . . CO. $1-75 

EADTT PAUL.— . . d7 . . CO. $1.75 

Popular Italian Novels, 

rvocT3?. AyT::-":. — A '.ivt s:::;.- Bv Ru:^-'. 12-0. cL. $1.75 

EiLL77.::i :z--:i. — Bv G-erri:::. '■^::r. z::::!.: -7. $l.7S 

Rev. Jobn Cuminins. D.D.. of London, 

TB.1 77.I--.7 77.:7A?^7:;y.— 1;. . do. $1.3: 

TBI 77.I-L7 :: ; 5T17iiAT7 7y. CO. . dO. $1.52 

Til iAi7 -.-7.y:N:- c?.t. — . . do. $1.53 

.TLrs . R i I c li 1 Anna Cora 71 o v\ a u . 
fAiBY rrKGiR? — A :i7::i; -r^ rr-e. ::~- :!::b, $1.75 

THE Jfm S7V377. — il $1-73 

THE CLIiHGrMAV 5 ■^:7I — 7.7. 7 I ".r. t ." S : I 7 r S. 77. fI-75 

T. S. Artbnr^s New Work*. 

UGHT o>* shadowid pathls. — A " 7veL i2mo. doth. $1.50 

OUT I>" TEZ vrOH-LI'. — iD. . . CO. $1-53 

WHAT C..7:i 77 7 7-r,7.:s. — CO. . . CO. $1 50 

ora keic-ze: i — . do. . . do. $i 53 

Geo. IT. Carleton. 

fcTB aetisi i3i CUBA. — With 50 comic iiiustrauons. . $1.50 

UE ABrnsr nrpEBir. — do. do. . S' 5^ 

CZR ASmSTTH A¥RlQA.—f/ft^r^s) do. . ^ ^ S'^ 

Jotui E-sVeu Cooke. 

,rAiBFAX. — A brXiant cev.^ noveL . i2mo. c'.cih. $:.:: 

BUUT TO HILT. — do. . . do. $1-5^ 

HAMMER AM) BaPIEE. — do. . . . do. ^1-5^ 

OUT o» THE FOAM. — CO. In pTcss. da $i-5- 



BY a. W. CARLETON NEW YORK. 



'Row to I?Iake money 

AHD HOW TO KEEP IT. — A practical, readable book, that ought 
to be in the hands of every person who wishes to earn 
money or to keep what he has. One of the best books ever 
published. By Thomas A. Davies. i2mo. cloth, $1.50 
J. Cordy JeaflVeson. 
A BOOK ABOUT LAWYERS. — A coUection of interesting anec- 
dotes and incidents connected with the most distinguished 
members of the Legal Profession. . i2mo. cloth, $2.00 
Fred. Saunders. 
WOMAN, LOVE, AND MARRIAGE. — A charming volume about 
three most fascinating topics. . . i2mo. cloth, $1.50 
Edmund Ktrke. 
AMONG THE PINE8. — Or Life in the South. i2mo. cloth, $1.50 



do. $1.50 

do. $1.50 

do. $1.50 

do. $1.50 

ficent new novels 



MY SOUTHERN FRIENDS. — do. 

DOWN IN TENNESSEE. do. 

ADRIFT IN DIXIE. dO. 

AMONG THE GUERILLAS. — do. 

Cliarles Reade. 
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. — A magul 

the best this author ever wrote. . 8vo. cloth, $2.00 

Tlie Opera. 

TALES FROM THE OPERAS. — A Collection of clever stories, based 
upon the plots of all the famous operas. i2mo. cloth, $1.50 
Robert IS. Roosevelt. 
THE GAME-FISH OF THE NORTH. — Illustrated. 12mO. cloth, $2.00 
8UPERT0R FISHING. — do. do, $2.00 

THE GAME-BIRDS OF THE NORTH. — . . do. $2.00 

By tlie Author of " Rutledge." 
RUTLEDGE. — A deeply interesting novel. i2mo. cloth, $1.75 

THE SUTHERLANDS, do. . . 

FRANK WARRINGTON. do. 

ST. Philip's. — do. 

Louie's last- term at st, mary's. — 
ROUNDHEARTS AND OTHER STORIES. — For children. 
A ROSARY FOR LENT. — Devotional Readings. 

Love In Letters. 
A collection of piquant love-letters. . i2mo. cloth, $2.00 

Dr. J. J. Craven. 
THE PRISON-LIFE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. — . I2mO. cloth, $2.00 

UTalter Barrett, Clerk. 
THE OLD MERCHANTS OF NEW YORK. — Five VOls. cloth,$IO. 

H. T. Sperry. 
OOXJNTRT LOVE V5. OITY FL[RTATION. — . I2mX). cloth, $2 OO 



do. 


. ^1.75 


do. 


. $1.75 


do. 


. $1.75 


do. 


. $1.75 


do. 


. $1.75 


do. 


. $1.75 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. W. CAELETOX. 



Miscellaneous Works. 

CHRIS AND OTHO. — A novcl bv 'Mvs. Julie P. Smith. 
CROTTN JEWELS. — do. ' Mrs. Emma L. Moffett 

ADRIFT WITH A VENGEANCE. — Kinahan Cornwallis. 
THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR IN 1870. — By W. D. LandoD 
DREAM MUSIC. — Pocms by Fred eric Rowland Marvin. 
RAMBLES IN CUBA. — By an American Lady. 
BEHIND THE SCENES, in the White House. — Keckley. , 
yachtman's primer. — For Amateur Sailors. — Warren, 
RURAL architecture. — Bv M. Field. With illustrations, 
treatise on deafness. — By Dr. E. B. Lighthill. . 
■WOMEN and theatres. — A' new book, by Olive Logan 
WARWICK. — A new novel by Mansfield Tracy Walworth 
SIBYL HUNTINGTON. — A novcl by Mrs. J. C. R. Dorr. 
LIVING WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. — By Prof. Davidson. 
strange VISITORS. — A book from the Spirit World. 
rp BROADWAY, and its Sequel. — A story by Eleanor Kirk. 
ftHLiTARY RECORD, of Appointments in the U.S. Army, 
HONOR bright. — A new American novel. 

BIALBROOK. do. do. do. 

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. do. do. 

ROBERT GREATuousE. — A ncw novel by John F. Swift 
THE GOLDEN CROSS, and poems by Irving Van Wart, jr. 
ATHALiAH. — A new novel by Joseph H. Greene, jr. 
REGiNA, and other poems. — By Eliza Cruger. 

THE WICKEDEST WOMAN IN NEW YORK. By C. H. Webb 

MONTALBAN. — A new American novel. 

JL4.DEM0ISELLE MERQUEM, — A novel by Gcorge Sand. , 

TEE IMPENDING CRISIS OF THE SOUTH. — By H. R. Helper, 

KOJOQUE — A Question for a Continent. — do. 

PARIS IN 1S67. — By Henry Morford. 

THE bishop's son. — A novel by Alice Gary. 

CRUISE OF THE ALABAMA AND SUMTER. — ByCapt. ScmmCS, 

HELEN couRTENAY. — A novel, author " Vernon Grove." 
SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL. — By Aladame OctaviaW. LeVert 
VANQUISHED. — A novcl by Agnes Leonard. 
will-o'-the-wisp. — A child's book, from the German 
FOUR OAKS. — A novel by Kamba Thorpe. 
THE CHRISTMAS FONT. — A child's book, by i^L J. Holmes 

POEMS, BY SARAH T. BOLTON. 

MARY BRANDEGEE — A novel by Cuyler Pine. 

HENS HA WE. do. do. 

MOUNT CALVARY. — By Matthew Hale Smith, 

PROMETHEUS IN ATLANTIS. A propheCy. 

TITAN AGON.'STES. — An American novel. 



S175 
Si 75 
$1.50 

Si. 50 
81.50 
$2.00 
50 
S2.00 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.75 

SI.7S 
$2.00 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$5.00 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.75 

$2. 00 
$1.50 

S1.75 
$1.50 

SO 
SI.7S 
$1.75 
$2.00 
$2.00 
S1.75 
$1-75 
$1.50 

$1.75 
$2.00 

$1.75 
$1.50 
$1-75 

$1 GO 
Sr.50 

$1-75 
81.75 

$2. 00 
.$2.00 
$2 0C 



•^'- ^ ;>>' V^^- "TT?"^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



008 928 31 - 6 






■■:■■■■ -'^y.cAf^-M 

















- . ...... V-. -.^,».■^.7•^6,■;■•>^' 
- ■ ■ ^m^mmm 



